


The Blackmailer's Bride

by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)



Series: A/B/O bodice rippers [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, BAMF Lydia Martin, F/M, Hidden Talents, M/M, Regency Romance, Stiles is a painter, ship building, spy novel, stiles is polish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 63,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/DarkAthena
Summary: Lydia Martin may, or may not, hold the plans to a ship that will turn the tide of the war, but when Peter Hale is told to investigate her by the crown he realises she might be much more than just the daughter of the man who designed the Semiramis.Blackmailing her into a courtship Peter introduces her to society as he is determined to find out her secrets, just as determined as she is to keep them to protect her mother and little sister.But Peter might not be the rake she thinks him, and maybe Lydia isn't the silly girl Peter thinks her either.





	1. Chapter 1

Lord Peter Hale hated balls, galas, routs and the other fripperies of the season, and having been summoned to Portsmouth by edict of the crown in his role as a spy for his majesty and his government did not make him any more eager to attend. However, he did have to admit that such places were excellent for the meetings between agents because no one questioned two alpha gentlemen stood slightly apart from the crowd, often on a balcony or landing, talking, and if they needed more privacy there were always the gardens where they could privately smoke.

So Peter entered the assembly rooms like a peacock aware that the blue-green colour of his superfine jacket brought out the sparkle of his eyes, and managed to hide his wince at the appreciative eye of the parents of the prospective beta girls, the omega were usually kept in London or Bath where the marriage prospects were better, although he wondered if he would be better off doing as his nephew had done and married a foreign omega for love without a fig’s care for what other people thought of them.

Marriage had some benefits, he thought, if only that it would protect him from the predations of the beta mothers of unmarried beta girls. Their mothers and aunts were much worse than the girls themselves. Omega were aware of their value, they wished to be courted, beta girls were much more grasping and would happily ruin themselves to force a rich alpha into marriage.

If he wasn't their prey he could appreciate their skill at hunting and their complete lack of morals in getting what they wanted.

As it was he was here on business, so they could look all that they liked but it would achieve nothing.

He made his way up to the landing, stopping only to say hello to a few fellows that he knew, and one widow who was well known in the demimonde, before his meeting with his contact, Lady McCall. It was standard practice that each agent only knew of the existence of two others in the circle, their direct superior who contacted them anonymously and the intermediary who filled them in on details and enabled them to contact their overseer. Lady McCall was Peter’s.

She was lovely in a red dress that complemented her Spanish skin, and her black curls were neatly gathered with a pair of garnet studded combs and a matching chain of garnets adorned her neck.

Peter took her hand and kissed her glove as was proper as they walked arm in arm, the perfect image of old friends, as they climbed the stairs. “Such a lovely get together," Lady McCall said, “and quite interesting as it is the first night that the Martin girls have appeared out of mourning.”

“Martin, that poor man that died in the carriage accident, I remember reading about it," Peter guided her to the window where, because of the cold, there were fewer people, and her appearance would be concealed in part by the curtain. The idea of the two of them talking privately would not raise too much concern, the room was quiet but not empty enough to raise rumours and the two were well-known friends.

“There was nothing accidental about it," Lady McCall corrected him, “the horse neither spooked or threw a shoe, he was found with his throat slit and his luggage rummaged through, but it has taken these three months to find out what it was they were after. We had thought it was just a rather thorough highwayman.” She took a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and sipped it, Peter almost considered mentioning how it matched her dress.

“Mr. Martin was a ship builder and it has come to light that he has plans for a ship that might turn the tide of war, it can, according to the rumours that have reached our ears," she spoke of the intelligence agency as the royal plural, “outrun even a clipper, and uses both sail and steam."

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I had thought that the weight of coal needed for steam meant that those ships were slow and ungainly, only really valuable for shipping cargo. And with the necessity of making them from steel because of the risk of fire..." he stopped, he did not know much about ships but he knew that much. “It is impossible.”

“Perhaps," Lady McCall said. “Nevertheless if it is possible then such a ship is needed by his majesty, not the Frenchies.”

“Of that, we can agree," Peter said, “even if it was only used to extend the war, it is not to be borne.”

Lady McCall stood at the banister watching the girls underneath. “That one," she said pointing out a girl in an apple white gown, a beta in a heavy corseted bodice that made her breasts look ripe and her red hair pulled up on her head. “That is Miss Martin, the eldest of the two daughters, she will turn nineteen this Easter. If any knows of the plans for this ship it will be either her or, if she is too young for your palate, that one," she pointed to a handsome beta woman who was wearing blue trimmed in black, “still in half mourning as is proper but that is the widow, Mrs. Martin. Courting either of them will gain you access to his household and his office.”

Miss Martin was smiling at the young buck with whom she danced, as far as Peter knew it was one of the Carter twins, he could not tell them apart, but either of them was insufferable. She seemed politely interested but nothing else, and instead of the usual collar of cheap gemstones that were common here in Portsmouth, it was not, after all, one of the centers of society, she wore a collar of lace leaving the expanse of her bosom bare, although Peter suspected it was powdered.

She was a small girl, pleasingly plump with red hair.

“Choose one of them," Lady McCall said, “court her, woo her, get her confidence. Get into her house, get into the office, see if the ship exists.”

“Don't you think that's a little cruel, the girl will be ruined," Peter said. He had never really courted a girl because he knew he had no intention to marry.

“Then marry her, she’s pleasing enough to the eye, is said to be quick witted and she is the heir apparent to her father’s shipbuilding business. If that troubles your conscience, Hale, then woo her mother, you won't have to worry about the girl then.” Lady McCall had a son about the same age as the girl, Peter wondered if she should mention that- if the McCall boy wooed the girl then the mother would have access to the house. Except the boy was a notorious skirt chaser and his mother had told him that he would be visiting the continent on a grand tour. Considering what that had done for Peter’s nephew and the mari he had brought back, possibly from some primeval forest as the boy seemed to be some kind of satyr even if Derek was utterly bewitched.

“We are caught by society here, the girl is old enough to be courted but we would ruin her, and the mother is in half mourning and so seducing her would ruin me.”

Lady McCall laughed, “as if you care for your reputation, Peter," she said, “you would not be so able an agent if you did. For king and country, what is the reputation of a beta girl? I’m sure whichever of the Carter boys that is that he cares only for her inheritance. You know what happens to beta girls, they are poorly educated, sold to beta men and end up with a full belly within a year of their marriage. Her reputation in exchange for France winning the war," she shrugged, “besides if you are so worried about it, you could marry the girl.”

When Peter left the ball it was with Lady McCall's laughter following him.


	2. Chapter 2

On the night that Miss Lydia Martin was pointed out to Lord Peter Hale the Martin House was burgled.

The burglar had the terrible misfortune of standing upon the tail of what he had assumed to be an ugly grey mat, which turned out to be the spoiled cat of the Martin matron, who yelled it's displeasure loud enough to bring the attention of the butler, McAlmont, who grabbed a parasol from a stand in the hall before investigating and was only in time to see the thief escaping out of the window and into the walled garden of the Martin house.

Clearly, the thief had thought that this was enough of an escape judging by his exclamation when the butler climbed out of the window waving the poker from the office fireplace and yelling threats and obscenities.

By the time the Martins returned to their home the butler had returned, having chased the miscreant down to the dock, the housekeeper was crying although no one was sure why, and all of the lights were blazing and the staff was awake, although it would normally have been only the butler and the lady’s maid, who would help Mrs. Martin to bed, the two girls would aid each other.

The two footmen were missing, checking to see if there was any more sign of the burglar, the butler was raving over a cup of hot spirits and the cook and maid were both trying to calm him down.

“Whatever happened?” Lydia asked as her mother climbed the stairs to her bed. Natalie was pleasantly drunk and even had she not been she was not good with these sorts of things, her husband had always dealt with such things for her, and her tasks were managing the menus - cook always provided her such good menus that she simply had to approve, to be beautiful and to be charming to his business associates.

Lydia had decided, even before her father had died, that she was the matron of the house and slowly took over the responsibilities. She managed the staff, with the butler and housekeeper, took care of the finances and allowed her mother to be the social butterfly that she chose to be.

Lydia had taken over most of the responsibility for the household from both her parents. It was easier than watching her father manage the books of his company, poorly, and allowing his wife to buy her bonnets and ribbons without questioning the cost.

The penny pinching and frugality came from Lydia.

It was Lydia who discovered that beef neck made a richer mock turtle soup for a fraction of the price of beef loin.

It was Lydia who replaced the ceramics in the hallway for those from Stafford instead of China so that she could sell the originals.

By the time her father died she had been in control of the house's finances for six years, and in that time she had managed to squirrel away a dowry from her sister where her father had been about to lose his company.

Lydia knew she could never get married, she was too busy trying to save her mother and sister, if she could get both of them married then she might consider it.

With the secrets she held close she knew she could not. They would ruin her entire family if it was just her she wouldn't care.

 

Lydia took charge of the scene even as she kicked off her slippers, and pulling on her house shoes. She had intended to go straight to bed, Mr. Carter was exhausting. He was sweet and polite and charming and determined but he seemed unable to understand that she would not marry him, and it was so well known in Plymouth that he was courting her - well attempting to - that the people who arranged the previous night’s ball had made sure he was sat with her at supper.

So the furore with the servants was the last thing she needed, she had simply wanted a brandy with hot water - which as a woman she was not supposed to drink in excess - and her bed with cream slathered on her face to take the stresses of the day away, secure that Felicity would sleep like the dead in the bed that they shared.

“So," she said sitting at the kitchen table like it was not unseemly for the daughter of a gentleman to do so. “What happened?”

“We was burgled, miss." The cook, Chance, told her. “If it were not for Madam's cat we all would have been murdered in our beds. It’s good you and madam were out, why I don't know what he would’a done.”

Lydia ignored the hyperbole. Chance was an excellent cook but she was given to flights of fancy.

“Was anyone hurt?" Lydia asked, mentally totting up the price of the doctor if he needed to be called. There was no question a doctor would be called, it was just where the extra expense would be cut from, possibly from Lydia’s own small allowance.

"No, Ma’am," the Butler, McAlmont told her. “As far as we can tell the miscreant didn't manage to grab anything either, as soon as Madame’s cat sent up the alarm I ran into the room, he was escaping from the window, and he did not appear to have anything with him, but he escaped before I could box him. Townshend and Farmer,” the two footmen, “are out seeing if they can find anything more.”

Lydia nodded, “and what room did you burst into, McAlmont, so we can check it over closely in the morning to see if anything was taken. It is clear we shall have to have bars fitted on the window in question if some footpad thinks it's the best way to enter the house.”

“Your father’s study, miss," the maid said, “but we looked around and nothing was taken, and Mr. McAlmont said that he would sleep in there tonight in case the footpad came back.”

One of the first things that Lydia had done when she had seized control of the house was to replaced the butler they had with McAlmont, an old army man who with a brick red face and fair hair, and spoke with a Glasgow accent thick enough to walk on. Her father’s butler had been an old man who was slipping into his dotage and had been relieved to be asked to leave with a pension to go live with his daughter and not continue the stressful work of being a butler. McAlmont’s wage and the pension were still a saving as no one wanted to hire an old soldier whose joints ached a bit in the damp, and which had never slowed him down, from Glasgow, for despite his accent they all assumed that he would be a drunkard and didn't want to put him in charge of the liquor.

McAlmont was an excellent butler and Lydia was glad to have him on her staff.

If the old soldier said he would sleep in her father’ study heaven help any who came in through the window

"I’ll not have you or yours come to harm, miss," McAlmont reassured her. It worked, she did feel safe in his reassurances. Lydia did not know many soldiers, although Plymouth was full of naval officers there was a large divide between the men who served in the King's Fleet and those who served in the Dragoons, as McAlmont had.

It was almost as if they were two different countries and not types of military.

McAlmont had a stiff shoulder from an old war wound that ached when it was cold, but it did not impede him from his job. If McAlmont said that no harm would come to them. None would.

Lydia thought about it, carefully pulling the pins from her hair and laying them out on the table so it fell from its neat arrangement in hanks before it was completely undone and she scratched her fingers through it, making sure she had all of the pins. She had always had the bad habit of playing with her hair when she was considering things.

Her mother had long since given up on breaking her of the habit.

“Have you checked my father’s lockbox?” Lydia asked. Lydia’s father had kept some cash about the house in his lockbox, along with her mother’s finer jewelry as he did not trust banks.

“Yes, miss," McAlmont said, “it was in its place.”

“What about the drawers?” she pressed. She had the feeling they were missing something.

"None of the locks appeared forced. It might be the thief got no further than stepping out of the window. He stood on Madame’s cat and she gave out the most awful yowl, Mrs. Chance rewarded him with some cream and a fresh boiled egg mashed up for him. Lydia's mother's cat, Semiramis, was a spoiled elderly lump of over groomed fur. She was perhaps fourteen years old, no one was really sure because they had forgotten exactly when she came into the house, had three teeth left in her head and was blind in one eye but was still doted on as if she the prettiest creature in all of the world.

“I can’t help, unfortunately, to feel that there was a reason for this. We are hardly among the wealthiest families in Portsmouth and to enter through the study window it meant coming over the wall and hoping no one would see him cross the garden, it is hardly a crime of opportunity.” Lydia said. Mrs. Chance had warmed up some cream and brandy to take upstairs on the instructions of Mrs. Martin’s maid, and she placed a cup of it in front of Lydia.

Maidens weren't supposed to drink spirits but Lydia liked a little brandy now and again, but Felicity got shot in the neck very quickly and so was not allowed spirits outside of the house and never with company, as Lydia's younger sister got very silly hen foxed.

“I did check, Miss, all the things that a common footpad might want and all were present, I moved them into the pantry until we can get bars over the window, and I’ll set up a blanket and chair and sleep there tonight to make sure that he doesn't come back.

“Did you check my father's papers?” Lydia asked, “they are not something a common thief would want but my father was well known to correct plans on other's ship designs, something Lydia had, under a false name, continued to do. Some of those engineering plans were quite valuable.

“All of your papers were there, as far as I can tell, Miss, all of the packets were accounted for.”

Lydia stood up ignoring the cream and brandy for a moment, "I need to check." She said she was still dressed for a ball although her hair was now down around her shoulders, and she wore her woolen house slippers so the toes of them peaked out under the heavy satin of her skirt.

 

Her father’s study appeared to be exactly the way she had left it that afternoon when she had prepared for the evening. It had dark green papered walls and dark red upholstery that even now smelled faintly of tobacco and wood smoke from the cheroots he smoked, only in his study because her mother had loathed the smell of them.

Lydia had spent a lot of her childhood in this room, learning with her father the art of ship building and then engine making as steam power grew more and more powerful. As a child, she had been in awe of his hand on the paper and it had started with her making suggestions, correcting his math, and then he encouraged her to make her own designs, no matter how fanciful.

By the time she had taken over the running of the house the first ship that she had designed, a type of clipper designed for running messages and not cargo, had actually been commissioned. Within the year her father had started making notes on the work of others, which was entirely Lydia’s work, under his alpha name.

After all it did not matter if she was capable, or even talented, she was doubly hindered by being both a woman and a beta.

When her father had died Lydia had been left with the terrible dilemma of a mother who had no idea of how ragged their finances were and a sister to present to Plymouth society and so with the help of a family friend, Mr Michael Whittemore, she had created a pseudonym, Mr Jeremiah Cole, who worked for the Whittemore family engineers, so all the correspondance came to him.

Her father had hoped for a match between her and Mr Whittemore's son Jackson, who at the time had been at Oxford, but Jackson, who had liked Lydia’s prettiness was dead set on not making the match as he believed himself due an omega bride and not the beta daughter of a French Emigre.

So instead of pressing the marriage, as Mr Whittemore quite liked Lydia and had no interest in pushing her into a loveless marriage where she might not be able to continue making him money, Jackson had said he intended to set up his bride in the country where she could have as many children as made her happy - proving whatever it was he learned in Oxford it was clearly not about the opposite gender.

Whittemore had reacted to his son’s insouciance by buying him colours and sending him to India with a small allowance and the instruction to come back when he knew what it was to act like a gentleman. It might not have been the greatest place to learn manners but it kept him out of the way until Lydia was settled.

Lydia had heard the rumours that he was already a Plunger, one of those soldiers who never saw the battlefield and spent their time wearing their uniform to open doors to parties.

Nevertheless he was no longer her problem.

Her problem was the empty packet that had been roughly shoved back into the pile so that it stood proud from it’s box.

She pulled it out and opened it.

It was empty.

The packet was labelled Semiramis.

The Semiramis was the ship she had designed as a child, when she hadn't understood how things worked. She had created a darter, a small ship powered by both sail and steam, using a paraffin engine not coal to keep down wait, so it was powered by drips of whale oil.

The whole thing was impossible but her father had always liked to brag about the ship, because if there had been a hope in all of Heaven it could have worked, and as an adult Lydia did not believe it could at all, it had been the simply whimsy of a child who didn't understand that resting a bottle of whale oil to drip unto an open fire in order to boil sea water was a short way to get a big explosion, and the ship itself being so narrow the width of boards necessary to build it would make it almost impossible for a person to use it for any length of time, even the punts on the River Cam were wider.

She had, as a child, called the ship Semiramis after her mother’s cat, and like the cat the ship held no real value.

She had, under the guise of Cole, tried to find a way to make the ship work but she could not. It was a fantasy and nothing else. It was just a weird sail and steam powered canoe with a screw propellor.

The screw propeller she had actually got to work, but not the rest of the ship.

Why, she wondered, would someone break in to her house to steal the plans of a child that did not work?

Nevertheless she needed to tell Whittemore. Perhaps he knew more than she did. He was due to call the day after tomorrow, that would give McAlmont a chance to have bars installed on the window. She thought it a bit of a tragedy, she had always liked the view from this window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semiramis was a famous queen, and her name is pronounced Seh-MEE-rah-miss, historically she masqueraded as her son to steal her husband's army and served as Queen for 42 years without a king and rebuilt Babylon, putting a wall around it - she's appropriate and I imagine Lydia loving the hell out of her
> 
> and the ugly cat


	3. Chapter 3

Peter was awoken by his reeve bringing him breakfast, wheaten toast smothered in mushrooms fried with pork and beef sausage, the sausage accompanying them on the plate, and a silver pot of thick black coffee made in the Indian style.

Peter’s reeve was a young man called Theodore Raeken who had served with him in India, albeit he had been the unappreciated valet of an officer, who had been completely unaware of the boy's worth. Peter had won the boy's service in a game of vingt et un, and doubled his wage. He never did tell Colonel Fotheringale he had cheated.

Theo Raken might be the greatest asset that the British ministry had in their arsenal in their fight against the French. He was personable and had a strange ability to convince people, no matter how guarded, to reveal things to him that they did not intend to, and he was as loyal to Peter as he was capable of being whilst Peter paid him. Peter had no doubt if someone offered Theo more he would betray Peter in a heartbeat.

Peter could not hold it against him, he was exactly the same.

However, Theo enjoyed the work he did for Peter, he took to spycraft with the sort of ease that was rare, and which Fotheringale was completely incapable of.

That was the reason that Peter had hired him as his reeve and not his valet, another servant who would accompany him everywhere, as reeves tended to be associated with the shadier aspects of service.

Peter had sent him out to gather news when he had arrived home at four in the morning, after visiting a local club to play billiards to see what he could overhear from the local nabobs. Peter had then fallen into his bed with no intent to wake before three in the afternoon.

“I have some information,” Theo said, taking a sip of his own coffee. When he had been searching for information overnight he brought Peter his breakfast and always brought a second cup for coffee. “Not much, even I need more than a few hours to get good intelligence, but I managed to have breakfast with a young naval officer by the name of Parrish, and the coffee house here is awful by the way.” He made a show of slurping the coffee he had taken from Peter.

“Now Parrish was trying to court Miss Martin,” as was common he refered to the elder daughter by her title, but the younger sister would be Miss Felicity. “But Miss Martin does not seem to want to be courted, Mrs Martin," Theo qualified, “is more intent that her daughters marry well. She thinks herself something of a Mrs Bennet without understanding the satire that defines the character. Local gossip defines Mrs Martin as having nothing in her head but butterflies.”

Peter would later credit his answer to lack of coffee and that he had only just awoken. “She collects butterflies?” he asked.

“No, that there is a empty space between her ears large enough for an entire flight of butterflies.” Theo said. “I am not sure that she is as stupid as people think her, but she clearly doesn't care for much other than fashion and marrying her daughters well. I’ll know more in a few days, of course.”

“Of course," Peter agreed. However what Theo could learn in a few hours was always tremendous.

“Mrs Martin is a beta from a long line of betas, her father was a timber salesman and she married up, now John Martin, according to the parish records, was born Jean-Baptiste Martin, and was an emigre from La Terreur, he came over with some wealth. The local reverend said it was a piece of jewellery. He sold it and used it to build the shipyards, putting together small fishing boats, he got a large contract for dinghies for the navy, and that was enough to make his name. His ships were solid, well built but basic until about five years ago. Now according to Parrish he hit his stride and he started work with steam. He joined the Athaeneum in London and he and a co-worker called Cole started fixing problems with other people's engines, and got paid a lot for it.

“They were, until then," Theo paused to empty his coffee cup, “struggling, but what wealth they have came from the work of him and Cole, the business is tied up with a solicitor called Whittemore. Now Cole seems to be a shut in, and is highly private working only for Martin, but Parrish didn't know much, because he's more interested in Miss Martin, but to his credit had no idea what her dowry was, but it does seem to include the shipyards. Given the head Parrish extolled her beauty for a good hour.”

“She was accompanied by one of the Carter twins.” Peter pointed out.

“Don’t I know it,” Theo groused, “the Carters have a better presentation to Mrs Martin, she is convinced they are worth more, but I'd need to check that, Miss Martin is suitably charming but as far as I can tell she's politely distant. Parrish thinks she doesn't actually want to marry, but he thinks that might be because he hasn't pressed his suit correctly. He is infatuated with her and I can't really trust his opinion, but apparently she is beautiful, incredibly accomplished, you know the usual.” He shrugged.

“She is very lovely.” Peter agreed, “pleasantly plump, red hair, although her sister's is more orange, soft mouth, small though, I imagine she’d barely reach my shoulder.”

Theo raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Mrs Martin likes to spend money, but she has no outstanding debts, she came out of full mourning very quickly, but she has two daughters she wants to marry off quickly. She has no idea of what is happening with the shipyards. Now Mrs Martin wanted Miss Martin to marry Mr Whittemore's son, but apparently the boy is a total jackass and whatever happened between them Mr Whittemore bought the boy colours in a company in India which Parrish thinks was for the best.”

“Anything about the ship?” Peter asked, pushing away his tray and climbing from the bed.

“Only that Mr Martin was excessively proud of it and bragged about it to anyone who would listen." Theo said, “including Parrish when he called on Miss Martin. But there was something of interest," he said, reaching out to take more coffee from the pot, emptying it. “Last night when they were at the gathering, their house was burgled. Now according to the neighbour's footmen, who had taken a cheroot and was more than willing to gossip, nothing was taken, but they broke into Mr Martin's home office, and they are putting bars there now. The footman said that whoever tried the burglary was chased out by the Martin's butler, which was apparently the sight to see.”

“You found out a lot,” Peter admitted as he worked at his toilet, before he dressed. “I didn't expect as much.”

Theo shrugged, and drained his coffee cup again, like it wasn't worth mentioning.

Peter dressed quickly for the day, allowing Theo to fix his cravatte. Peter did have a valet but he had left him in London, not expecting his business with Lady McCall in Portsmouth to take as long as it clearly was. He hated staying in hotels, he lacked the comforts of his own house and his own wardrobe.

He was also getting the impression that he was going to be here at least for the London season, which was unfortunate because although he did not care for most of the season's entertainment he did like the theatre and he had the wonderful idea of bringing Derek's new mari to London society because it would be hilarious. The omega had no filter, and no care what others thought of him, as well as being titled enough that even if he outright insulted and cut them they would clamour for his attention regardless.

He briefly considered if he could invite the entire Martin family to London for the season just for the entertainment of watching Stiles at Almacks.

Then he thought it over a little more. Actually, now he considered it, taking the Martins to London might actually benefit him. Whatever the Semiramis was the only people who would know were Cole, who Theo had thought was secretive and protected by the solicitor, and who Theo could certainly ferret out in a week or so, and the Martins, and if the Martins were under his cognizance in London it would be much easier to convince Mrs Martin into bed with him, and from there into telling him everything that he desired about the Semiramis.

He just needed to get her into a position where it would not be considered strange or unseemly in society to invite her and her girls, after all she had to take care of the reputation of her daughters, but if he could convince Stiles to sponsor them in London society, which would of course be hilarious, the girls could make better matches, and as a widow if she was installed in a London address no one would question if she had a lover, even if that lover broke things off with her later.

Peter liked this plan, but now he had decided what it was he was doing he simply had to put it into motion.

The easiest way was to create a small misunderstanding. “Theo," he said, “arrange for flowers to be delivered to the Martin house for whoever it was who arranged that thing last night, make it clear that it's from me and it was designed to thank them for the evening's festivities.”

Theo looked confused but Peter knew he'd do it regardless.

“I can then call on them to apologise for the flowers being delivered to the wrong house." He said.

“You won't get anything other than a pocket posie at this time of day.” Theo said, “but I can certainly arrange for something worthy of your lordship for delivery tomorrow.” Peter nodded, as he adjusted his vest, “Any other requests or will I be okay to take a short nap?”

“Something to apologise for the bother and calling out of propriety, you know the usual, I’m going to have to call on them without an introduction, something to say sorry for the mistake, and blame the florist, you know how these things go. Also send some flowers to Lady McCall, something suitable for a funeral.”

Theo agreed that he would, leaving the room and taking the tray. This caused a small problem for Peter, because he had no plans for the evening, and no obvious way to do anything before the next day, although Theo would certainly keep busy information gathering.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter waited four days before he called upon the Martin family in their townhouse. It was a recently built terraced townhouse, made of solid blocks of white stone, with a Grecian look, and a gate at the side of the stairs that led to the front door, which led to the basement and the servant’s entrance. It was a nice house for a well to do beta and his family, but it was a little more low rent than Peter was used to. He himself had a large townhouse in London and Brailsford Manor in Derbyshire, although his nephew had his own property the two of them had shared homes for years. Even after Derek had married. Derek kept property in Bath and Brighton, as well his own estate, inherited from his omega parent, in Cheshire that he had put out to rent. When Peter had left London there had been talk of buying a house in Cornwall for Mischief, as Peter called Derek's new bride, to have an atelerio for his painting.

Peter did not know if he was any good at painting but he enjoyed it and it made him happy, and if he was happy Derek was happy and all was well in their marriage. Peter personally thought Mischief would be bored in a few weeks in Cornwall but no one asked his opinion.

He rapped on the Martin door, which was painted a fashionable glossy black, and was checking his nails when the butler opened the door. Theo had told him the man was ex-army and Scottish and his name was Almond or something, Peter was not great with the names of servants. He paid them well and expected circumspection but unless he saw them on a day to day basis the chances were he wouldn't bother to learn their names.

“I was hoping the lady of the house was available," Peter said in his most gentlemanly tone of voice, the one that suggested he was nobility and very used to getting what he wanted.

“If you will wait in the hall," the butler said, "I shall ask if Mrs. Martin is accepting visitors. Can I have your name, sir?”

"Lord Peter Hale, I am calling to apologize, due to a mix-up at the florists the house received flowers I had intended to send to Lady Fairfax as thanks for the ball. I am certain it caused all manner of confusion so I wished to pass my apologies on if you wish to inform her of that.”

“I can pass on your apology with a card, my lord,” the butler said.

Peter decided that he liked him. He clearly had no patience for fools and had no care for having Peter in the house, but managed to express his disapproval without tone but a truly remarkable efficiency that Peter was willing to offer him double his wage to come work for him, once he had finished with the Martin affair of course. He had no wish to play his hand so early in the game.

“Thank you, but I can wait," Peter was a gentleman, he could use politess as well as the butler.

There was a chair in the hall, beside a mirror for guests to wait whilst the butler informed the mistress of the house of their arrival, suggesting that she was in the day room if he had not been allowed in there, or that the butler expected to be able to send him on his way.

It was only a few minutes before the butler led him into a sunny day room with windows that overlooked the garden, on which someone had recently installed bars, such as they used in Europe. That coincided with what Theo had told him about how the house had been burgled. From what Theo had learned someone had been hired to steal plans from the house from a certain lockbox kept in the old master’s office, but the thief in question had only retrieved part of the plans and that he had been chased from the property by the male members of the staff.

Mrs. Martin was in a simple day dress in mourning black, as was appropriate for a widow of three months, but her hair was neatly dressed and her face clean and well tended. She had a large expressive mouth, and wide-set blue eyes and her face was a pleasant oval. Her figure remained trim after her two daughters, and her hair was a remarkable red-brown. Both of her daughters, he had noticed when he first saw the three of them, were redheads also.

She must have been beautiful as a white, one of the young girls who were in society to catch themselves a husband, who wore white and pale pastels so they could easily be seen as husband seeking. He had only seen her daughters from the staircase but as a connoisseur of female beauty, he hoped that they were as fair. Virgins might be a bore but they were pleasant to look upon.

“My Lord," she simpered rising from her chair, the motion was fluid and she made sure that the line of her bodice was presented to show more of the skin through her fichu. Perhaps it was not only the Martin daughters that were seeking a husband. Peter, however, was not in the market, a mistress, however, was always a pleasant diversion. Strumpets were a way to pass an hour, but a mistress tended to demand more time, which had advantages of his own.

He had once been thrown out of a brothel in London for setting up a quick impromptu game of cricket in the hallway, patrons versus whores, and he kept promising himself to write down the rules one day, for it had been the lack of them that he was sure saw him ejected. 

She had been talking but he hadn't heard a word she said, he guessed she was apologizing for not expecting him.

“Mrs. Martin, I do hope you don't mind how forward I am being, arriving here without so much as an invitation," she fluttered her hand at her throat assuring him it was not an imposition, “but when I heard that the flowers intended as a thank you for Lady Fairfax had arrived here I did not know what to think." This was a lie, he had known exactly what to think, that this gave him the pretext to call on the Martin house and continue his investigation into the business of Mr. Martin and the infamous ship, the Semiramis.

"I discussed it, at length, with my nephew the Duke,” he had not, “and he suggested that it best that I apologize in person, I brought you this," he placed the box of chocolate dipped cherries soaked in brandy, upon the table. He knew they were very expensive and to be honest, he had not expected to find them for sale in Portsmouth, but Theo was resourceful. “I am quite honest in my contrition,” he was not, “but I dare not wonder what you think of me.”

"I assure you, my lord, that it was quickly divined that the flowers were sent in error, although at first, we thought that they had been sent by one of my daughter’s suitors. Young Felicity has a few admirers but my Lydia has a few, the message was so oblique.” 

Peter smiled in chagrin, hoping Mrs. Martin didn't see the lapse, Theo, it seemed had taken some sort of liberty with the card. “A private joke between Lady Fairfax and myself, we are old acquaintances.”

“The flowers were beautiful, the florist assured us it would be fine to keep them, I hope you do not mind," Peter assured him that he did not, after all, a few flowers, even out of season were a frippery that only lasted a few days, but if they made her smile then even the accident was worth it.

Natalie Martin was a beta and was unused to the flattery of the London circuit, and even amongst those Peter was known as silver-tongued. She had, according to his intelligence, married young and poorly, Mr. Martin having no real prospects at the time for all that he owned his own business. She had a taste for the finer things in life but he had barely been able to keep her appetites for jewelry and gowns fed. Peter knew exactly what to say to her to get the outcome he wanted. He was sure that if he continued he would have her skirts around her waist by supper, but he was still unsure if it would be necessary.

She was a little vapid, and that struck him as a boring truth be told. He preferred his women, at least those who were worth more time than a quick gallop, to be able to keep up in conversation and although he could buy her loyalty with a small stipend, certainly no more than five hundred pounds a year, it would have meant continuing these inane conversations with him once they were outside of the bedroom. Nothing was more bother than a boring mistress.

Betas were educated to manage a house, and for the most part that was all that was expected of the female of their gender. Omegas, of both sexes, were educated to the highest degree available, taught to seduce and be witty, to charm and dominate, in many ways to enslave alphas, and bear them educated brilliant children. Betas were not. It was in parliament whether or not betas could even attend university or have the right to vote. Peter had a seat in the house of Lords, so he did not see what the fuss was if everyone was allowed to vote, it would not apply to beta women or omegas anyway. The idea of his brother’s mari, Mischief, voting was hilarious anyway.

Mischief was beautiful, educated, and quite possibly a forest creature or something out of one of his Eastern legends, him having an opinion on British law was ludicrous, not because he was an omega, but because Peter was not entirely certain he was human. He had some strange unpronounceable foreign name, and Derek mostly called him Stiles, which was some nickname that he answered to, but when he was introduced to Peter he had immediately renamed him Mischief.

Mrs. Martin was still talking when the girl walked into the room, “Mama, I," Natalie's face fell, Peter wished he could have understood what crossed her face at that moment but when Peter’s eyes fell on the girl he assumed it was embarrassment. The girl was the older daughter, Lydia, whose hair was gathered in a loose braid over her shoulder, but she was dressed most inappropriately, for she was wearing a pair of men's churidar pants, such as were popular for riding in India with loose thighs and tight calves, and a loose farmer's blouse gathered at her neck with a length of black ribbon, the same as at the end of her braid, and a pair of ruby coloured house slippers.

She was beautiful, the angles in her mother which were hard were softer, but her jaw was stronger, her eyes larger closer set, and a brownish green that Peter wanted to tilt into the light to better see. Her skin was clear and fair, with a fine forehead and a slight dimple to her chin, and her voice was pleasantly rough, her ears were properly covered by her hair but she wore a pair of pearl ear fobs that batted against the length of her neck most pleasantly.

She was smaller than her mother, given more to a pleasing plumpness than her mother’s lean height, but dressed as she was Peter could not tell much about her figure other than that she had a beautiful pair of calves and tiny shapely feet. Most curiously she had ink stains on her fingertips.

Whilst Mrs. Martin was ushering her daughter from the room, not quite apologizing and not quite being matronly enough tat she might insult Peter, Peter made a decision. He was not going to court Natalie Martin, he was going to court the goddess in pants.


	5. Chapter 5

When Lydia called on her mother in the morning room she was not alone, but the only knowledge of that that Lydia received was her mother throwing herself from the chair to interfere with her daughter entering the room and doing her best to bodily block the person she was in the room with from seeing Lydia.

There had certainly been no cards telling them to be in to expect visitors so Lydia had dressed for a day at her desk, and she was wearing a pair of her Indian pants and a blouse she had redesigned to tighten the blousy sleeves so they didn't get in the ink, and tied at the neck with a length of riband. She was demurely covered but that did not mean that what she was wearing would not be considered scandalous, but the servants of the house were used to it. Her underthings were what they should properly be, with a shirt and corset under the blouse, so she had no real idea why it was considered so scandalous when the clothes of an alpha woman were much more revealing, being cut low in the breast and made of muslin that was dampened with water until they clung and were almost sheer.

But one rule for alphas did not mean one rule for everyone else.

So she was bussed up the stairs with no more pause than if she had come in soaked wet to the skin, whilst her mother rooted through her clothes for something appropriate for meeting with a lord, a Lord, Lydia, she repeated, one who now is sat waiting because of your state of undress, like Lydia’s mother herself was not sat in a housedress of mourning black as if she was not expecting callers either.

She had hissed out instruction to put on the “duke dress”, the dress she had bought if either Lydia or her sister had the need to call on a Duke and although the dress was not fine enough for a ball or rout, certainly not a London one it was too fine to generally wear to call. That was why Lydia shared it with Felicity, it was unsure which of them would attract the attentions of someone worth wearing it for, and now Lydia was being told to put it on, so she got the family maid, Bond, to help her dress quickly.

The “duke dress" had been bought in Paris, because the war had not really stopped people visiting the city. It was a lightweight cotton skirt and zone bodiced mantua, printed with a wisteria design and a very fine white stripe, and a silk stomacher and sleeves, although there were light muslin petal oversleeves, and the mantua was tugged up to hide her breasts rather than make them look like they were about to pour from her bodice, and there was a cluster of silk roses at the top of the bone where the zone of the mantua fastened.

It was put on in stages, the skirt which went over a bum roll, then the stomacher, with the silk sleeves tied to it, and then the mantua which was neatly pinned in to it, and always struck Lydia as being about four inches too long, but because of the patterned hem she could not take up. She paired it with her red velvet shoes with the cut glass buckle.

A maiden might have been expected to wear pastels and beiges and whites but Lydia liked a little flash of colour. She may have decided it was best for her family that she never marry but she did like to look her best and her best included completely inappropriate shoes that she hid from her mother until it was too late to change.

Bond quickly unbraided her hair, finger-combing it and pinning it even as Lydia was buckling her shoes, she left it in a finger curled tail over her shoulder so Lydia could go back down as quickly as possible. The whole change had taken no more than five minutes.

Even so Lydia made sure to check her appearance in the peer glass by the door before she went back into the morning room, and to think, she cursed to herself, all she had wanted to know if her mother had borrowed the quill knife again.

—-

The gentleman who shared the morning room with her mother immediately made Lydia try not to smile, for she had never seen someone so desperately uncomfortable and caught by politesse so he could do nothing about the cat which had, obviously when Lydia’s mother had taken her upstairs, entered the room and decided to choose his lap as her bed.

Lydia knew exactly what the problem was too.

Semiramis had been a gift from a foreign trader who had used the Martin shipyard to build two new schooners for his fleet. He had been so pleased with them he had returned with gifts including the cat which was supposed to be the breed favoured by the Persian Empress.

There Semiramis’ pretensions to nobility ended. She had long blue-grey hair and wide golden eyes with a permanently bemused stare as if she had eaten a brick of opium, and with her perfectly flat face, she took breaths like she was asphyxiating very loudly. Despite everyone taking care of her coat, which was very thick, and was combed three times a day, a perpetual funk surrounded her, a clearly unpleasant smell that was almost thick enough to chew on, that no one had ever been able to identify the source of.

She was also very heavy, and the sort of heavy boned cat who seemed to weigh about three times what the scales said that she did, and who adored people, possibly seeing them as portable treat dispensers, and loved nothing more than collapsing, and it felt like a weight had been dropped, unto someone's lap where she either started to yowl or snore like someone dragging a chain through a pile of logs.

Right now the guest to the Martin house, who almost certainly would not return, was pinned to the couch by the cat and Lydia's mother seemed completely unaware that it might be a problem, whilst he, within the bonds of propriety and being a guest, an uninvited one at that, could not simply toss her onto the floor as he clearly wanted to.

Lydia would not have held him accountable for doing it, but instead, her mother was extolling the virtues of a man who clearly liked cats blithely unaware of what he so clearly wanted to do, which of course meant he couldn't even accidentally tip her from his lap.

Lydia did not recognise him. He was certainly not someone she had met before. He was handsome, certainly, with well-managed hair, shorter than was popular for alpha men, with a neatly trimmed beard around his mouth. His hair was dark and his eyes were narrow and calculating under straight brows, with a fine straight nose and a slight cleft in his chin. His forehead was clear, his hair swept back from it with a little oil, and an oval face that was framed by his high collar, highlighting his strong cheekbones, but it was not as high as that of the Portsmouth dandies. He wore a dark green coat over a golden waistcoat, white breeches and knee high brown leather boots with a black cap around the leg.

He was perfectly presented and sat on him like a particularly unwanted old rug was Lydia’s smelly, vocal, and vibrating cat.

When he caught sight of Lydia he genuinely looked at her like he wanted her to save him and was perfectly aware that she was very close to ducking back out into the hallway to laugh.

Unfortunately that was the moment her mother noticed her and decided to introduce her, thus removing from her the ability to back off into the hall and get the urge to laugh out, and Lydia also knew that if she lifted the cat in the gown she was wearing her mother would have her ear the instant their visitor was gone, so she could no more help him than he could help himself. Although if her mother intended her to marry this lord she would not raise have a complaint about Lydia putting the cat in the kitchen - where she should rightly be if they had guests.

Even guests who liked cats were overwhelmed by Semiramis and her persistent funk, never mind the colossal amount of shed hair, which was now all over the visitor's fine velvet jacket so it would probably need groomed when he was gone.

“Darling," Lydia's mother said, standing to guide her in from the hall, “This is Lord Peter Hale," she put a heavy emphasis on the word lord, to make sure Lydia was to be at her most charming - or else. “Lord Peter," she said with a slight, almost imperceptible curtsey, one that she had clearly practised over some time, “allow me to introduce my eldest daughter, Lydia.”

With Semiramis on his lap and almost certainly heavy enough to be cutting off circulation to his legs he clearly wanted to stand but couldn't without being so rude as to throw off the cat and possibly cause the sort of offence that would see him cast out of the house with instructions to never return. Of course, Lydia's mother would not care for after all this was a lord, Semiramis was just a member of the household, and one normally exiled to the kitchen. She had made a point to ignore when Mr Bracknell who had ten thousand a year and a fine estate in Derbyshire had mocked a stray cat in the street, although Lydia had immediately cut him for it.

It seemed strange but his lordship’s hand was absently stroking at Semiramis between her ears. Mr Parrish had spoken fondly of the cat at his lodging house and Lydia liked him for it, her other suitor, Mr Carter, she had not asked about cats.

You had to love cats, she knew, to share a house with Semiramis, because she was a lot of cat, and she smelled bad, and she didn’t miaow like a normal cat she made a sound more like a man saying murray, she breathed loudly and purred like a steam engine, and that excluded the shedding, the occasional vomiting in your shoes and the other joys of sharing a life with her.

But Lord Peter Hale was scratching her between the ears.

“An honour to make your acquaintance, my lord," she said sitting on the couch and using her skirts to hide her work bag. She took in sewing for the wives who worked in the shipyards who were often too busy for silly things like hemming and if a little lace was applied to a baby dress it was between them and Lydia, or more commonly Felicity. However where she sat their mother was not aware that their work bag was sat beside the couch where Lord Hale was pinned.

“Believe me, Miss Martin," he was veritably purring, “the pleasure is all mine.”

There were a few moments of polite conversation where Lydia pretended to be interested in what he said and he pretended to be looking at her face and not the cluster of rosebuds on her bodice, but it took McAlmont bringing in a tray of tea to dislodge Semiramis from his lap, carrying her out over one arm like it didn’t strain him to do so.

Lord Hale was yet to learn that Semiramis had a taste for unattended cups of tea.

But as Lydia watched him, the slight flinch when he tried her mother's expensive tea which was desperately unpleasant and she saved for guests because she believed them when they said it was delicious - they were clearly lying to be polite, it was not pleasant at all, in fact, it tasted like Semiramis had relieved herself in the caddy but it had always tasted like that, she found that underneath the manners and the immediate leer he had given her breasts, which was quite normal most alphas immediately went for the tits, he was looking at her ears and the little pearl fobs that she favoured, her mother was inanely gaggling on about the ball that they had both attended to which Lord Hale had sent them the flowers by mistake and weren’t they beautiful, Lydia, and Lydia, who had not seen the flowers, agreed that they were, but Lord Hale's eyes never seemed to fall on her mother, but on Lydia’s ears and neck.

Rather than looking like he was undressing her with his gaze, as many of the alphas she knew did, he looked like he was piecing together a puzzle.

It made Lydia wonder why Lord Peter Hale, a man who was not often in Portsmouth, certainly not often enough for Lydia to know his name as being part of the navy, he certainly did not wear the uniform, or in ship building, for many Lords owned companies, rival companies even, but she did not know his name, had invented a pretext to visit them, and a few days after someone had broken into her house to steal the plans of the ship she had designed as a child.

She could not help but think that the two things were connected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dress lydia is wearing is like this one
> 
> http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/131021.html
> 
> I got a comment on White hart about how they wanted to see the costumes so here you go


	6. Chapter 6

Peter Hale left the Martin house and immediately asked Theo if he had some peppermints, for Theo often carried some in his pocket in a pretty tin that had caught his eye and which Peter did not ask if he had stolen, to take the taste of their tea out of his mouth.

He sat back in the seat of his carriage, “we have a change of plans," he said, “I am no longer going after the Martin widow,” he said, “but instead Miss Martin.”

“The elder daughter?” Theo asked. Theo was wearing a plum coloured superfine and white breeches, looking every part the young dandy of high fashion, even down to his shoes with a florid rosette under the buckle.

“The younger is barely out of the nursery, there would be no challenge, she’d be so pleased to have someone, anyone paying attention to her that she'd give up the house’s secrets for a smile, and lift her skirts for a fondle. Where is the fun in that?” 

Theo did not give the impression of believing him for an instant, but he did pass over the peppermints. Most people took peppermint for their digestion, it being excellent for bloating and mild nausea, although it did little for heartburn if it did not exacerbate it, Theo carried it to sweeten his breath as he did not care for the taste of cloves when they were not studding a roast ham. “Miss Martin is a fine beauty,” Theo said finally.

“Her mother serves a truly terrible cup of tea," Peter said rolling the mint around in his mouth, “the daughter is young enough that she could be trained into enjoying a much finer blend, although I do wonder if it is not the scraps left over in the places in China where they dry the leaves, the ones that fall off the mats and onto the floor.”

“Shall I make a pound of tea a courting gift?” Theo seemed genuinely amused at the entire thing.

“It is far too soon for that,” Peter said, crossing his legs, then he began to drum his fingers against his knee, beating out the rhythm of a popular song. “What is the next appointment in our social calendar, I am clearly going to have to arrange several accidental meetings.”

“Your calendar is back at your rooms,” Theo said, “but Portsmouth is a small place in comparison to London, if the girls are searching for husbands there are only a few places they could go.”

“Tell me what you have learned about the suitors?” Peter said abruptly causing Theo to blink. 

Theo had not expected that change of direction but it led to an interesting realisation. Lord Peter was a rake and a cad, but he had never been so interested in a woman. Even Lady McCall, whom when drunk Peter had once defined as his truest love, barely gained a mention. Peter considered himself far too intellectual and proud to be gone over a woman, but if Theo was not sure of his lord he would swear that Peter was smitten. “Miss Martin is well respected, her affection is sought after, but it might be a combination of her beauty, which I am told is great,” Peter made a disgruntled noise, his mouth making a wet clacking noise of his peppermint against his teeth. “However she is also an heiress of some note, as the eldest child of Martin when she marries her mari will inherit the boatyards and that makes her more appealing than simply beauty or wit, she is worth perhaps two thousand pounds a year.” 

Peter did not seem interested in the sum, but he was a lord and a scion of the Hale family who was absurdly rich, so even if Peter was left penniless by his own investments and land he knew his family would support him and not notice the cost.

“She has two primary suitors, or at least two who escort her most often, but she seems uninterested in them. There is Lieutenant Parrish who has just acquired a very promising commission that will be taking him to Nassau, and safely out of the way.” Theo did not doubt that Peter, who had had time, had arranged that just as a matter of course. “The other is Mr Carter, now, unfortunately, I am not sure which Mr Carter, he is one of a set of twins and both are the mirror of the other, now Ethan is said to be a good man, charitable, sound investments, well spoken of, but his brother, Aiden, has a propensity to gamble and lacks his brother's charity. I was told that if Ethan was an angel then Aiden was a devil, but I do not know which of them is courting her.”

“Find out," Peter snarled. 

“I figured I would just remove both from the race," Theo told him, “Ethan has investments in America which immediately need his attention and Aiden can be bribed, I intended to use your discretionary fund for this.” Peter kept a small amount for bribes and things, a thousand pounds, kept apart from his usual wealth, and if he gave receipts for he might be able to recoup the cost from Lady McCall as part of his duties to king and country.

“Try not to be too thorough in removing him," Peter said, and Theo understood that it was a direct instruction not to kill Aiden, Peter was not a skinflint even if he was, at times, cutthroat in his actions. If Aiden became enough of a threat Peter would put him in a ditch and not lament it at all.

Peter seemed distracted as the carriage rocked on its way, he sucked loudly on the peppermint, “make a gift to the Martin household,” he said finally.

“More flowers?" Theo asked, “perhaps a caddy of tea, perhaps from your own lands in China?” 

“It might be seen as presumptuous," Peter said, “some candies will be fine, and send a card asking permission to call.”

“Permission?” Theo asked, "I had thought that that horse had already bolted, you showed up today without permission.”

“Today I had no intent to court Miss Martin, and now I do.”

“Might I ask why you changed your intentions? just in case it means that I have to change what I’m doing,” Theo did not like plans that changed, he understood plans rarely survived in their entirety but changing everything for a simple whim - those he despised.

“She was not dressed for company,” Peter said quietly, almost to himself, “she wore a blouse with the cuffs tied flat, and a ribbon at the collar, like you might put on a kitten, and most scandalous of all, she wore Indian riding pants.”

"Pants?” Theo seemed boggled by the very idea, “how...” he left the word open.

Peter rolled the peppermint around in his mouth, “she had such a fine pair of calves and ankles,” he said to himself, “then her mother made her change, and despite clearly being forced into a cream gown, which did nothing for her complexion, she had red velvet shoes with a glass buckle, I found myself looking for the flash of her shoes under her skirt when she moved. And her tits," he stopped, “her face is lovely, that is true, but,” he stopped.

“My lord,” normally when Theo used Peter’s title it was a mocking jibe, “you are acting very strangely," he continued, “you are acting like your nephew when Lord Mischief is in heat. Are you sure that Miss Martin is a beta because you are acting like an alpha who has spent close contact with an omega in heat.” 

Peter bit down on the peppermint with a hard crunch. “It would explain a lot,” he said, “but considering the benefits that an omega can bring a family why would they keep it secret?”

"It's Portsmouth,” Theo said, “is there anyone here who could recognise an omega birth?”

Peter dismissed the idea with a shake of his head, “someone would have noticed, it's not like omega are entirely like betas, even the females, there’s more than just the pointed ears, Mischief's are barely pointed at all, it's barely a crease in the curve, there’s the hairlessness, the severity of their menses.”

“Beta women often have terrible menses, we can't argue with their descriptions, we don't have them, and it's not that unusual that they remove the hair with wax in imitation of being omega, so that’s not a fair assessment. Mrs Martin is an idiot, if no one expected her to give birth to an omega then she might not notice.”

“Someone would have noticed," Peter protested.

“People are stupid," Theo answered.

“She would have noticed," Peter maintained.

“If she did would she broadcast the fact, it would mean being sponsored and possibly taken from her family, she has close ties to her sister," Theo said, “her father could not afford to present her in London, so she’d need to be sponsored, and if she’s sponsored who looks after Miss Felicity?”

Peter seemed to mull it over for a few moments. “she is very lovely," he muttered, “and most of what we know about omega is because we overeducate them to make them more appealing, but she must know.”

“She probably does,” Theo countered, “but if she discovered it as she left the school room it would be too late to find herself a sponsor for society, perhaps that is the reason she is so unkeen to find herself a suitor. What time I have spent with Lieutenant Parrish he has been adamant that she is very determined that she not be married, it would be a terrible embarrassment to her family if she was revealed to be an omega now.”

“She would need a sponsor," Peter said, “a patron to protect her, someone whose place in society would protect her from the ignorance of her parents.” He was talking to himself, picking long grey cat hairs from his breeches as he chewed over the idea.

“I am not liking the sound of this," Theo said. He knew that Peter would not listen to him but he wanted to get the statement out so Peter knew that he had objected when it inevitably blew up in his face. “We are supposed to be looking for the plans of a ship, remember.”

“The Martin family are the key to the plans," Peter cut him off, “if we secure the family we secure the plans that Martin died for, as a part of the family no one would question my searching of his office, and it would give us access to the boat yards as well.”

Theo wanted to press his palm to his face and shake his head. “You wish to marry the girl?” He was incredulous. Peter never wanted to marry. He had been very adamant about this. He was content in his life of whoremongering and raking. He had insulted some of the mothers of eligible maidens and omega bachelors who had tried to lure him into marriage. He had once turned out a girl who had been visiting his home for she had put herself in his bed naked in the hope of discovery so Peter would be forced to marry her. He was handsome and very rich after all.

Theo also knew that some of those self-same girls had lifted her skirts or accepted a squeeze and a fondle in a dark corner away from the chastising glare of their mamas and chaperones. 

“Yes," Peter said quite firmly, “I am going to marry her.” 

Theo got the impression that she might not get as much say in the matter as she would like, but she would get a life of luxury, she would want for nothing, except perhaps the affection of a husband who wanted her for something more than being an alpha next to an omega in heat.

Theo was glad that he was a beta, he had none of the same problems, when an omega was in heat around him he just found them tetchy and short tempered, and without the overwhelming desire to please that alphas were afflicted with he found it to be somewhat bratty and spoiled. Even Lord Stiles, the name he was most commonly called by even if Peter insisted on calling him Mischief, tended to huff sighs and make put upon groans whilst stuffing his face with candies and dried fruit, whilst quaffing chocolate and wine. Whilst Peter and Derek fussed around him, unable to resist their instincts to please him and keep him happy, Theo felt the same about him as he did the rest of the month. He had no issues with an omega’s fertility and if Miss Martin was omega and she was primarily surrounded by betas they wouldn't notice that week before their menses when they were warmer and uncomfortable craving candies and attention. She would have just seemed more affectionate, as opposed to altered by her biology to seek out a mate that would satisfy those needs.

If close proximity to an omega in heat was enough to convince Peter Hale to marry Theo was glad he was not afflicted with the same madness.


	7. Chapter 7

Theo, after depositing his lovestruck employer back at their hired rooms, changed quickly into the sort of clothes a laborer would wear, smeared mud across his face and hands, picking off the worst of it, and headed down to the docks to find out more about the person who had burgled the Martin house.

Peter Hale might have lost his mind over a pair of calves, but Theo still had a job to do.

The problem with appearing to be a laborer in Portsmouth docks was that if he was seen to be drunk or basically just lingering with no real purpose he might be picked up by the press gangs, and although there was a payment given to men who joined the navy voluntarily it was cheaper to strike them over the head with a cosh and have them wake up halfway to the Bahamas or France with the knowledge that they were in the navy and if they didn't act like it they would quickly have the skin stripped from their backs publically. 

Theo had no intention of joining the navy or waiting until they put back in Portsmouth so Peter would come collect him. If he was dressed normally he would not run the risk of the gangs, but if he dressed normally he would not look like he would belong in the public houses and taverns he needed to frequent to get the information he wanted.

Someone had burgled the Martin house and unusually, even for an interrupted burglary as it had been, nothing was taken, not even a trinket from the desk that would mean the night hadn't been entirely wasted. 

Windows men were considered slightly more upscale, within the criminal fraternity, than the usual teasers, who teased purses from pockets, or those children who were trained to make distractions to make it easier for the teasers. Most teasers upgraded to heavy work and a nimble few became windows men, although some were women almost all the girls who had been teasers were grandfathered in to brothels.

Theo had been a teaser before he had been apprenticed to Colonel Fotheringale who had seen potential in him as a soldier even if he was too young to be conscripted at the time. Mrs Fotheringale had decided to feed a starving and dirty child and the next thing he knew he was working for them, getting three squares a day and his own bed.

The difference in his service to Hale was simply his wage.

Now he just needed to find the windows man who had hit the Martin house.

He found a tavern with the usual sort of name, something that suggested something unsavoury but was not worth mentioning, and ordered a tankard of ale, most of which he intended to spill on himself so he smelled much more drunk than he actually was, and sliding a shilling across the bar started his enquiries.

It barely took him three hours, and four mugs of ale, one plate of roast pork, to find his quarry, he didn't even have to leave the tavern.

The burglar in question was called Cory, which Theo questioned because it was more high brow than most street thieves, but he was a young lad, barely graduated to windows by the look of him, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. He looked very young and very afraid.

Theo reassured him with a pair of shillings that all he wanted was information, that he worked for a lord who had decided that he wanted the Martin boat yards and with the usual arrogance had decided it was already his and did not care for people touching what was his. The line that Theo had taken was that Peter wanted to make sure that he was the only one interested in the boat yards and to prevent a burglary happening again.

Just as Theo predicted Corey told him everything.

Corey had been hired by another of the criminal fraternity, Lance Reddick, who ten years ago had been a talented windows man, but had let himself go, and was now too large for any kind of delicacy and so hired people like Corey to do the actual lifting. He dealt primarily with rumours to select his victims and houses like the Martin's was in a nice area and was much more likely to attract attention from the navy. 

The Martin house was a commission job.

Someone had approached Reddick, possibly based entirely on his reputation, and hired him to break into the Martin house however was best and to take several folders, which Corey had managed to steal stuffed in his jacket before the butler had chased him out of the house and down the street, and that they could help themselves to anything else they found. He had even been given information on when the Ladies Martin would be out and so it would be easier to pluck the house clean.

There had, apparently, been no mention of the cat in the instructions. 

Corey had had the name the of the ship written out for him so he could recognise it as he could not read.

Theo was about to pay him and thank him for his time, he had ordered food for him because he could remember himself being on the streets and hungry, when Corey had pointed out that he had been set to go back into the Martin house but when he went to visit Reddick he had been meeting with whoever had employed him.

Theo could not really restrain his excitement because this child was about ready to give him all the information that Peter had taken him to Portsmouth for.

Corey had not seen the employer, he had admitted he was working for someone else, but had been polite and educated, he spoke well, even when calling Reddick for all of the fools because the information that Corey had fetched, which Reddick had boxed his ears for, was that several files were missing, for something called a propellor screw, and a fuel injector and that without those the plans were useless, and the gentleman, and it was a gentleman Corey was sure of that, had not wanted to pay in full when he had not delivered in full, and Corey had ducked out whilst they were arguing because either way Corey would be in for it.

Theo thanked him, slipping him a guinea and telling him to keep his head down. Corey rolled his shoulders in a way that suggested he wouldn't really be able to, if he didn't work for Reddick he would be in the navy, whether he wanted to be or not.

Theo didn't feel bad about him for long. In his line of work it didn't pay to.

His second stop was a popular haunt of Reddick. He had intended just to look at him. It had not turned out so simply.

Reddick liked to gamble, and his preferred sport was boxing. He did not box himself, years of little exercise and too much rich food had undone him as anything other than a crime lord, and in the ring he probably would have been laid out with one good blow, but his reputation remained. He ran book and liked outsiders with favourable odds, but Theo had not heard enough that he could say, with any certainty, that he was crooked. He probably was, but it wasn't spoken of about him.

The boxing ring in Portsmouth was like a hundred of them in London, in the dirty basement of a warehouse where a ring had been cordoned off with wooden boards, that allowed the public up close with the fighter but not so close that they’d get involved, although a brawl was an inconvenient truth.

Reddick liked to bet on the boxing so if Theo wanted to check him out, for later manipulations, even if it was only “leave the boy alone” threats it was best to see him in his natural element where he felt safe and in control. Those would be easy enough to remove later.

He put a shilling on a boxer, sure that he was going to lose, the kid was plucky but his opponent was nearly twice the size of him and had hands like sides of beef. He looked like he had been a pug for most of his adult life but was reaching the end of his career.

No one seemed interested in this fight, a slaughter that it was, so Theo found no effort in elbowing his way to the front of the crowd where he could watch more easily.

A few men came to the front and wandered back, making bets or fetching gin, and the more drunk they got the more they shouted, one offered a slew of obscenities at the kid who was holding his own for now.

With gin stink breath in his face Theo swallowed his anger, the boy was not a pug, if he was in the ring it was for a reason and Theo knew enough people who had been in that position, including himself. Theo had been lucky to fall in with good people, and then be hired by Peter, who wasn't a good man but was practical enough to treat well the things that belonged to him. When the boy stepped back towards Theo he took the opportunity to tell the boy exactly what to do.

Theo was not a pug, but he had spent time amongst pugilists before he started working with Peter, he had seen some of the best in the country and had the honour of training matches with a few of them. He couldn't win the fight for the kid, but he could give him a little advice.

Theo walked out of the match two pounds richer and with a kid who was determined to offer himself as his valet. The two pounds he knew what to do with - he slid them across the table to the kid with one hand, a cloth dipped in gin for his cuts in the other.

“Donovan," was what the kid introduced himself as, he might have been the same age as Theo but every part of him made him see very young in comparison.

“Donovan,” Theo cut him off when he went to speak, "I don't care about your sob story, I don't want to know about your life and it's hardships, you were in that ring for whatever reason you were in that ring, but you owe me one," he drained his own cup of gin, “and I will collect, but it won't be more than you can pay. Keep the money, but if you hear anything, and I mean anything, about the Martins or their boatyard you bring it to me, if the information is good there’ll be more money for you. But if it's not good our arrangement is off. Now get yourself something to eat, and some clean clothes. You stink like a sewer.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia’s gown  
> https://i1.wp.com/www.frockflicks.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/dangerouslias-michelle-button.jpg?resize=600%2C768  
> ish

Lord Peter Hale had, in the past two weeks, become a common guest at the society meetings of Portsmouth, whether, Lydia suspected, he was invited or not. He was always polite and charming and made a point of lavishing his attention on Lydia and her family, knowing that Lydia's mother would be delighted for a Lord, any Lord - even the Lord of Hell, to be courting her daughters.

Lydia was sure he was attempting to court her, although she had made clear, or at least hoped that she did, that she had no intention of marrying. He would appear with gifts and trinkets at Venetian breakfasts, although Lydia suspected he was not a man given to mornings for her looked squint eyed and was caught yawning more than once as he waved away wine in exchange for coffee, although the entire thing could last well into evening, allowing people to appreciate the sun whilst breakfasting in the gardens of a fine house.

He visited the Martin house if there was no engagement with the intention of taking both girls out in his carriage for a ride along the coast, with the promise to have them, and their chaperone, back for supper, and paid for them to eat at inns along the road.

He made an attempt to listen to both sisters and tell them stories of his travel and had on more than one occasion attempted to take Lydia by the hand to show her something.

He made her gifts of things that were not so expensive as to seem inappropriate like pairs of gloves or fans, and on occasion a bushel of remnants of ribands to share with her sister, the sort of thing that could be bought at any haberdashers for a few shillings.

Mrs Martin was no exception to his largess, she recieved a caddy with two different blends of tea, there was a vinaigrette, one of unstamped yellow metal that was most probably gold, with a semi precious stone front that could be worn on a chain around the neck like a pendant.

Lydia didn't trust him at all.

He would, under the guise of getting to know her and her interests ask rather strange questions, he asked about her father’s industry, and did she know much about his family. He asked her about her reading and if she had ever visited the Athaeneum in London, which she, as a woman, could not. Only Alpha women were allowed in it’s halls where they could study the published works on engineering. As a woman she should have no interest in engineering at all. He asked her if she read Latin and Greek, she told him she spoke passable German and read competently in French because it was considered standard in the education of anyone who would enter the marriage mart, even if they did not want to.

If she did not know better she would suggest that he was trying to gather information about her.

He did ask questions that suggested jealousy as well. He asked about Parrish, who had told her of his recent posting in the Americas, and who wished to confirm their engagement before he left. She had repeated that she had no intention to marry but she was flattered.

He asked her about Mr Carter, trying to be sure which of the two twins that it was that was courting her.

She repeated, again, that she had no intent to marry, but it was Aiden, the elder twin, who was trying to court her, and had the manners to not insert himself into every aspect of her life that she might grow tired of his company. He had merely smiled and offered her one of the candies from the box he had brought her.

He asked her about Mr Whittemore and if his son had ever tried to court her. He asked her about Mr Cole and Mr Kelly, who managed her father's shipyards. He even asked her about her favoured modistes and how she felt about her chaperone, Bond.

Bond allowed him no intimacies, to the point that she would sit next to him in the carriage so that the Sisters Martin were facing him.

Felicity was also barraged with questions although she mostly reacted with giggles and blushes, and at one point launched into a long monologue about her favourite book where he looked like a rabbit who had come across an adder and was too frightened to move or stand still.

Lydia adored her sister but she could talk.

Lord Peter was also much too old to marry Felicity, but it did seem that he lavished attention on her only when Lydia had refused him, so if they were at a dance and Lydia's dance card was full he would then write his name in several times for Felicity, which had the terrible problem of making Lydia think of him almost fondly, for her to wonder if it wasn't something that he did with that intent.

He had no romantic intentions towards Felicity, Lydia was almost entirely certain of that, as was Felicity herself, but these gestures were kind with no sense of pity about them. When she spoke, which she could do with very little encouragement and for great lengths, he listened to her and genuinely seemed to be interested, and when he brought her gifts they were designed to be things that she would enjoy.

Lydia could not accept his courtship however, her decision to never marry was because she had made decisions to save her family, her father had trained her as an engineer and it was as an engineer, not a potential bride, that she earned money for her family, in her role as Jeremiah Cole that afforded them the luxuries that they have and made sure that the men who worked for them got paid.

If she was revealed as Mr Cole her entire family could be ruined and if she married then she could no longer act as Mr Cole, the freedoms that her mother allowed her would be quickly curtailed and whoever married her would get control of her father’s company with no obligation to keep her mother and sister.

So Lord Peter’s gestures of kindness were wasted on her. She could not afford to accept them. However if he wanted to marry her mother she was happy to accept it as an alternative.

But her mother was vapid, venal and vain, she would not make Lord Peter happy, even if she herself would be delighted. Peter was intelligent, well read, and well travelled, and her mother had never been as far as London.

It bothered Lydia that she was bothered by it.

Her mother had agreed that Lord Peter would take them to the ball that they were both attending in his carriage, and her mother had insisted that Lydia get a new gown and wear it with the blue riband that Lord Peter had given her to fix her pendant, because it matched his eyes.

Her pendant was one of those her father had brought with him from France as a boy but had never pawned so it must have had some sentimental resonance to him although he had never told her it.

Her new gown was a pale peach compere front, with satin ruffling along the stomacher and the cuffs, which had leaf caps over the lace fall around her elbows. The same silk ruffling continued down the front of the mantua, although in the angalise style, and a deep ruffle of the same fabric was stitched on as an embellishment around the skirt. She had paired it with her acorn earrings that chimed when she moved her head and a comb that looked like it was studded with diamonds holding the twist of her hair, although a thick sausage curl twisted down along her neck. She had chosen a pair of silver satin shoes with a small heel and a large pink trimmed bow that was almost complementary to the peach. She half expected her mother to send her to change them as soon as she saw them.

Felicity’s gown was almost more suited to a child, and paired with a lace fichu with crossed over her breasts, in a manner that was almost prudish. It had been a gift from Lord Peter, and had been one of the gifts that Lydia had appreciated from him, because she did not care for people leering at her sister’s tits, even if they were larger than Lydia's own, and Lydia had more than a handful.

Lord Peter had always seemed more fascinated by the space behind Lydia's ears than her breasts but giving a pretty gift that would also protect her sister’s breasts from leering married men showed he paid enough attention that he, himself, had noticed them.

Felicity was not considered as pretty as her sister, which Lydia thought to be absolute nonsense, for she had the same wide eyes and soft mouth, her colouring was more like their father’s, with honey brown hair and grey green eyes, but she had some freckles across her nose and a beauty mark underneath her mouth, which when it was stuck on with glue was considered a boon, but when they were natural were an impediment. Her mouth was also a darker pink than Lydia's own, what did it matter if it was less full.

Felicity was also just turned sixteen, it did not matter if she was not beautiful yet, because she would be.

Felicity's gown was silver with pink stripes, but Lydia’s silver slippers with the pink heel would not fit her, so she wore a pair of satin slippers in the Chinoiserie style.

Lord Peter was waiting for them in the hall, in a bright blue superfine with white breeches, shirt and vest, with a lace cravatte. He looked quite handsome, and when he saw Lydia he lost control of his expression for a moment.

He looked, just for a moment before his usual expression of smug satisfaction replaced it, soft.

—-

In the carriage Peter made a point of sitting next to Lydia and asked to see her dance card, it was designed to look like a fan, and went to write something into it, "I was hoping," he said, “that I might take the last dance before supper," he said, it meant he would have accompanied her into supper, meaning that they would be sat next to each other and could talk freely.

"I promised that dance to Mr Parrish at our last meeting," she said with a smile, “with his new commission I did not know when I would have the opportunity to speak to him again.”

Peter made a noise of agreeing, “I would like to talk to you this evening, so might I take the opportunity to write myself into your dance card.”

“Lydia," her mother said, “you should be flattered.” She batted her fan around her face.

“I promised the first dance of the night to Mr Carter," Lydia said, “but there are at least five dances left.”

He put in his name for two dances, the first two after supper. “Now Felicity, would you do me the honour of your first dance of the evening, unless you too have been booked up.”

Felicity assured him that she had not, and using the small pencil wrote in his name.

—-

It was to be the strangest night in Lydia's existence. During her first dance with Mr Carter, who was generally a little aloof and whose demeanour worked well to rescue her from the attention of other alphas she had no intention of spending time with, and had made very little demands on her time, which was the kind of suitor she liked because she had too many things already demanding her time.

He was well turned out, polite and considerate, and she was sure he would make any girl here a pleasing suitor she just was not interested. He didn't slobber when he kissed her hand either.

“Miss Martin," he said firmly, as if he had spent a long time considering what it was that he would say and how best to say it, “I have," he stopped, and Lydia had a terrible premonition of what he was about to say. “We have been courting for nearly four months now," he said, “I think it is past time that I announced my intentions more formally,” he let out a breath, “and hope that you will understand." Lydia had the most awful notion that she understood far too well what he was about to say and had no intention of letting him.

“Mr Carter," she tried to interrupt him.

“Please, Miss Martin, or might I call you Lydia," he did not want to be dissuaded from his goal. “I hope you will do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

Lydia’s immediate reaction she managed to swallow which was blurting out no, but manners prevailed. “Mr Carter,” she said, “might I have time to consider this?” she needed time to think of a way to let him down gently.

“Please do not keep me waiting over long, Miss Martin, I do not know that my heart could take it.” He was trying to look hopeful but there was something about it that was not quite right. Something that she could not say why it was wrong.

She shared the next two dances with gentlemen she knew, one of which was married and just enjoying dancing.

Then came the dance with Lieutenant Parrish who was rather nervous about his new posting and just before he took her into supper he took both of her hands in his and had a nervous look on his face.

He is going to propose to me," Lydia thought to herself, “he is going to propose to me and leave next week for the Americas where I might never see him again," which might have been the best outcome because it meant that she would never have to marry but no one would pressure her about never being engaged.

“Miss Martin, would you please let me do the honour of telling you how much I admire you," he started, “I know that time is limited with my new commission, but I was hoping that I might make the suggestion,” he looked so earnest that Lydia felt uncomfortable, “that you might accept you as your husband?”

It made supper quite uncomfortable.

—-

After supper she allowed Peter to take her for a short walk in the garden, even though it was late winter and she felt the cold most keenly, “Miss Martin," he began, and she sighed, she couldn't help it, it was as if God had decided to try her patience with not having to let down one suitor, but three in one night.

“I am not a man who is often denied what he wants," he started, knowing she was leaning against his arm for his warmth, “and I have decided to press my suit, so I have of course done what I can to promote my aims," he said firmly, “and I would very much like you to take the role of my lady.” It was, or at least it felt, a more honest proposal than she had had from the other two.

“My lord," she started.

"No, Lydia, dear, let me finish,” he said, he had not asked, nor recieved permission to use her name. “I have spent these past weeks watching you and I have learned a great deal," the sudden chill that ran down her spine had nothing to do with the weather. “I know you have a secret, my dear, something so terrible that if it came out you would be ruined, and your sister and mother with you.” He turned to look at her. "I am willing to overlook it, for simply I do not care, and as Lady Hale you would be above such things, no scandal could ruin you, and your sister and mother would, of course, be provided for. I have already spoken to my nephew about inviting the three of you, with a chaperone of course, to stay with us in London for the season.”

"I don't know what to say," she said.

“The answer to that is very simple, my dear," he said taking her hand and kissing it softly, “you say yes.”

-—


	9. Chapter 9

Lydia was struck silent by Peter’s proposal. Most maidens waited seasons for a single proposal, pushed into marriage by need and lack of other options, their parents agreeing for them, and Lydia knew immediately what her mother would choose, but she herself had never intended to marry. To protect her family she had taken on the nom de plume Jeremiah Cole so she could work as an engineer, fixing problems in others designs in exchange for coin, and that coin was keeping their family and family business aloft.

She was good at it and she enjoyed it.

Copies of her designs were available in the Athaeneum that other engineers could use her designs upon which to base their own and Mr Whittemore told her that one of them was hung on the wall, but as a woman she could not enter.

There were female alpha engineers but she was a beta, and denied entrance simply by being born in the wrong sex. It was a strange conceit male betas and alphas kept, to maintain a false sense of superiority, that the possession of a pair of ovaries removed intelligence from people entire.

But she was trying very hard not to think about her dilemma. The winter night was chill but she did not dare wrap her arms about her in case he took it as an invitation.

If she married Mr Carter she could remain in Portsmouth, he would manage her father's business, inherited through marriage to her, and she would be expected to be a society wife like her mother. She did not care much for Mr Carter, he was attentive and polite but there was something about him that seemed sly and untrustworthy, so she was sure that she would turn him down, but she wished to do it politely.

Then there was Lieutenant Parrish who was about to leave for Nassau where he might be for the next few years, this allowed a simple proposal that might never end, which allowed her to remain in Portsmouth and manage the business until he was allowed to leave the Navy, and allowed her to supplement her family’s coffers with his wage. She could remain exactly as she was, and if he pressed a quick marriage because he was leaving for the Caribbean she would still be left behind where she could serve as Mr Cole and keep her mother and sister.

She quietly cursed her father's inability to keep a house and accruing debts she had been paying off since she was fourteen years old.

Although Lieutenant Parrish sounded like the best option, he had what Felicity referred to as a chronic and incurable case of the “ibbles”. He was reliable, sensible, dependable and a lot of other words which ended with “ibble”, and when she had had that conversation with Felicity she had had a list of virtues that ended in ible that just highlighted the point that although handsome and kind Jordan Parrish was tremendously boring.

Marriage to him would be the equivalent of painting over a mural with whitewash- boring, bland and interminable.

She had never considered the idea of marrying Peter.

He was attractive she was forced to admit, much in the way a wolf or a tiger might be attractive and dangerous. There was an attraction in things that could prove deadly, and everything about him had an air of danger. He was brilliantly intelligent, well kept and wealthy. He had shown her no cruelty but nor had he kept to himself the capacity within him for such cruelty.

He was a wicked cad, and he did not hide from it, he gloried in it, and even in his proposal he had been wicked.

But he knew her secret and he did not care, he could ruin her, but his only reason to even threaten so was that he could get his own way, but he did not care that she was an engineer. He had his own reasons for proposing marriage between them, and he was using the ruin of her family to get his own way, as if he suspected that she would not hold it against him.

He was blackmailing her into marriage and the terrible truth of it was that Lydia had no real choice.

He was stood waiting for her in the garden, the moon behind him full and large, haloed by the settling frost. It seemed to limn him in silver light which made him seem more unsettling, he had his hands clasped and the moonlight glinted upon the polish of his buttons. He seemed oblivious to her dilemma, so secure was he in her answer.

There were benefits to the marriage to, if Peter was as notorious a cocksman as rumour had him he would have little interest in the marriage bed, he probably had a slew of mistresses and so his appetites would be taken care of by others. He was vain so she would have access to the finest modistes and being a titled mari in London would grant her access to the libraries in that city that were too far for her to use in Portsmouth. She would have the wealth to present Felicity in London, so that the gentlemen there would not have the rime of salt on their skin. Her mother could remain here, but secure in the knowledge that she would be kept unless she chose to remarry.

She offered him her hand and he took it, bending to kiss her knuckle, “I am delighted that you chose this, Lydia," he said taking the informality of using her name, as his betrothed she supposed it would be traditional but he had not asked permission. “I am certain we shall make each other quite content.”

“Why me?” she asked, giving up her propriety in trying to understand. “You do not care for my inheritance, and I doubt you'd know how to manage a shipyard, I am not the loveliest maiden you have encountered for you are well travelled and have met many who are fairer than I, it is not my education or wit for I am educated like a beta and not an omega so although I speak French and German I do not know Greek or Latin as London society brides are expected to. It is not my family, for I know my mother is tiresome. And yet you tolerate her, you pay attention to my fat and smelly cat, you give gifts to my sister that verge on inappropriate and you have only known me these past few weeks. It cannot be my virtue for there are those whose virtue is tighter kept than mine.”

"I had not thought you considered yourself so low,” he said, keeping her hand in his, his skin was hot and he had turned her hand and was rubbing the pad of his thumb over her palm through her glove. Her fan and dance card were hanging from her wrist, agitated by the motion of his hand. “I hold you in high esteem," he said, “and I find you quite lovely, your wit enchants me, and your education is most interesting. When all of the potential brides in London are raised and educated the same way they share the same _on dits_ , and there is only so much of the same conversation in a single conversation that a person can bear.” He cast his gaze over her. "I am not a simple man, dearest," he said, “and I wish to find someone as complicated as I, you are the first I have discovered to do such. I never feel as much an alpha as I do when I am in your presence and it is a feeling that I enjoy and wish to continue to experience it.”

“You are a strange man, Peter Hale," she said.

He grinned and it was like a wolf at the expectation of an easy meal, he had that sort of loping sense of danger, he was like a flame that part of her wished to reach out and touch. “and your honesty is most refreshing, you have never simpered or sought out my attention, but you speak to me without artifice and your conversation is often fascinating, you are a brilliant scholar and you make no attempt to hide it. You do not care if you please me and that simple detail makes you incredibly charming, and believe me, my dear, I find you very attractive. When I first saw you I wished to tumble you, but after spending time with you I decided that I did not wish to ruin you such, you see if I offer you marriage my name will protect you, but if I ruin your reputation then I must protect you completely, and if I return to London then you are left without recourse,” he paused, “except your own wit which is considerable enough, but even with your inheritance you'd be left with nothing and your mother might even disown you leaving everything to your sister instead, and although there are many whom I have ruined I found myself loathe to do that to you. 

"I wrote to my nephew and he said that the strange emotion that I felt for you was that I wished to spend my life with you. I wish to see what you are capable of when the strictures of society are released from you. I want to see you strip the pretenders of society, those who think themselves supreme, of their pretensions. I want to see the person you can be.”

He paused. “It is much unlike myself, I must admit.” He was watching her closely, as if he was waiting for a correct response, “if you wish me to bombard you with compliments I can but I think it would do little to quieten your apprehension, and frankly, it would be beneath us.”

“I still do not understand your motives, my lord," she said. She was quite perplexed by the entire thing, and the two other proposals that she had received that evening did little to settle her nerves. She wanted her bed and a bottle of brandy with none around her to bother her with questions that she might understand her own mind.

“I have several," he admitted, “the image of you at Almacks with my nephew is of course one that entices, the proprietresses have been trying to lure me into marriage with some favourite or another- I do believe there is a bet- and my nephew, the Duchenne, is a wild and free spirit who will have no time for their games, and the knowledge that I have slipped their nets with someone whom they would have bickered over. I am not as young as I was and the idea of having someone to come home to after my travels is appealing, but those are all reasons that I might choose a wife, not why I would choose you.”

She tilted her head suggesting that she understood.

“You have kept your secret suggesting you are much more intelligent than you wish people to think you. You use your beauty as a shield that presents you as a puzzle that I understand will take years to unravel, and I was surprised to discover that I did not wish to solve. It was that realisation that made me sure that I wished to marry you.”

“This is so sudden," she protested, “people will talk.”

"I understand that, I was thinking we shall openly step out, allowing us to get to know each other, I have no intent of announcing our engagement in the Times tomorrow, I had thought we shall openly court until mid-December, for I have business left here in Portsmouth, but I had intended to return to London for Christmas, for my nephew is coming to town for the season, so I thought we could announce it then, when you and your family would join us, as our guests, meaning Felicity can also attend the London season, with my nephew sponsoring her.”

“Are you sure your nephew will? you make lots of decisions on his behalf.” Lydia could not see how he could be so sure, he was manipulative but not even he could see the future.

“He will adore Felicity," Peter told her, “for she is simply adorable. She has a wit that has genuinely made me laugh out loud hours after I have left her presence, and her turn of phrase is so delightfully on point, she possibly does not realise just how viciously witty she is. The two of them will fast become bosom friends, or mortal enemies for they are much alike. It will not bother Mischief much to have her as his guest for those things that he is attending regardless for I will swallow the cost of her coming out.”

That was a gesture she had not expected, presenting a maiden or omega to London society was hideously expensive, she would need a new wardrobe, access to appropriate jewellery and perfumes, she would probably need to host a ball of her own, which meant hiring an assembly room, then there was the use of a carriage. All of those things cost money but Peter seemed to wave off the cost as if it was just pin money.

Perhaps to him, it was.

“You have this all planned out," she said.

“I am not a person who likes to leave things to chance, I am used to getting my own way because I make sure my plans are such that I will get my own way. I did not come to Portsmouth intending to plan marriage, however I found myself unable to do my business because of thoughts of you.”

"If you just wish to bed me," she said in a flip manner, like the very idea didn't terrify her, “for you certainly have noticed that I have plans of my own.”

“I even took them into consideration with my plan," he said, “and yes, I considered just bedding you, and wondered if it alone would remove my fascination, but when I found myself dreaming of you, and I did, it was sharing breakfast with you, not the simple act of knotting you," his eyes seemed to glint in the moonlight, “but do not think that I have no desire to, believe me, my dear, I wish to play your body like a lute, I want to see what music I can make from you.”

For a second a flash of want slipped through her like a shudder, which she had not expected.

“Your plans seem to be taking care of your mother and sister, and so you gave up the concept of marriage and motherhood, but it might be that motherhood holds no interest for you, I, myself, am ambivalent although I have had images of you swollen with child, will it make your breasts larger, more tender, I wonder," he stopped, “I do desire you, Lydia," he said, “do not question that, and if keeping you means keeping your mother I am more than content to do so, even if I would prefer she kept her household in Portsmouth, and if your sister wishes to marry from the _haute ton_ then by being presented by Mischief will achieve that. Your father's business will be managed by the current staff, but I have no interest in it, I hold lands in India and China both of which provide great wealth, my philanthropic interests are in the Americas in the promotion of Abolition. I told you, Lydia, I have weighed every option and the one that suits me best is that we marry. Is it that you do not wish to?”

"I do not know!” she barked it out, “I came out tonight hoping to enjoy the dancing and that I might sneak a glass of the pink champagne without my chaperone or mother noticing and you, and Mr Carter and Lieutenant Parrish have all proposed to me, and I have no sooner begged time from one than another approached me. I have no had time to even think if my feet hurt or wonder where I left my shawl for I am cold and you bombard me with this information. I am only surprised that you have not decided the date and gender of our first born, which I am sure you would prefer an alpha boy for.” She had clenched her fists at her sides, “if you have planned so much?”

To her consternation he laughed. “And that is why, dearest," he said, “I chose you.” And still holding her hand, their entire conversation although private was watched over by a slew of chaperones, or nosy mothers and aunts with nothing better to do with their lives than gossip, from the windows, although they would later deny such curiosity, he had done nothing to press his advantage. He had not steered her to the trees, or behind the hedges where men often steered the debutantes in order to steal a kiss or more, he had done nothing, to those who watched, but kiss her hand.

“As I said, my dear," he had his arm raised so she could rest her fingers upon it, “we won't announce our engagement immediately, you will have time to come to terms with it.”

There was a tragedy in that, Lydia knew, she had time to become resigned to her fate.


	10. Chapter 10

When they returned home Lydia waited perhaps an hour, until she was undressed, and went to her mother’s chamber.

The town house had always been a little too large for their station, with four main bedrooms and five for staff in the attic, although those rooms were much smaller and did not have much room for more than a single large bedstead. Lydia did not remember a time before she shared her room with Felicity, but her parents had always had separate rooms, with one set aside for guests - though the had never had one.

Lydia’s mother’s room was light and airy with pale coloured fabrics and the warm almost suffocating smell of hair powder and perfume, but it was a room that had never been closed off to her daughters, although she had never allowed them to spend the night, having the nurse that they had had when Lydia was a small child, carry whichever daughter it was that had visited her, but Natalie had never closed her door to her daughters, even if they were encouraged to visit their nurse for a night terror.

"Mama," Lydia said, pushing open the door, she was wearing her wool dressing gown and her hair had been brushed out and braided, lashed together with a strip of calico for the night. She had pulled on a pair of violet colored socks for she found during the night her feet became almost unsufferably cold, “can I speak with you?” she asked.

“Come, darling," Natalie said opening her arms for an embrace. It suggested she might have heavily partaken of the sherry at the card tables, for she tended to be overly demonstrative with her affection when she was foxed, “tell Mama what is the matter?”

Lydia did her best to be very strong and to manage her life with no input, even from her own mother, mostly because Natalie was, by choice, somewhat empty headed, so for the most part she had no advice to give, but sometimes Lydia really needed her mama.

It all fell out of Lydia in a rush, “Mama," she started, running into Natalie’s arms with a whimper, “the most terrible thing has happened.”

“You've not been ruined have you?” Natalie asked, for I shall have Mr Whittemore deal with the offender in the court, I have never liked the look of that Mr Carter, his fascination with your tits is very unseemly.”

"No, Mama, he has been nothing but the perfect gentleman," Lydia was quick to correct, but her mother was correct, he did spend a lot of time looking at her breasts when he thought that she was not looking. Lydia was just glad it was her breasts he was ogling and not Felicity’s, although she wasn't sure if it was because he was courting her or she just disliked the idea of someone looking at her sister in that way.

“It is," Lydia started, then frowned looking for the words, “Lieutenant Parrish proposed tonight," she said.

"Oh, Lydia that's wonderful, he has such a good future a head of him, and he's so sweet and dependable, I’m sure you’ll make him a good mari.”

Lydia was glad that with her face against Natalie's shoulder her mother could not see the face she pulled. “Yes, Mama, but I asked for some time to think it over,”

“That’s good, darling,” Natalie started, “it's good not to look too eager.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, “but I no sooner had left his presence when Mr Carter proposed to me.”

Natalie was quiet for a moment, “that is a conundrum, I am not so fond of Mr Carter, I find him to be covetous in ways I do not like, but he is worth more a year and he will not be at sea for long periods at a time, that is something that would be good for you.”

"It does not end there, I asked for time to make a decision, for at this point I was already quite confused, and wanted some time to clear my head, it made supper almost unpalatable, but I did not wish to raise any hubbub for everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves most famously," she sighed, “after supper Lord Peter asked me to accompany him for a short walk around the garden, and Mama, he proposed to me as well. I am agog, I have no idea what it is that I am supposed to do.”

“A lord?!” Natalie gasped, “Lord Peter proposed to you, well, Lydia, darling, the answer is clear, you must, of course, marry him. Lieutenant Parrish will never amount to much and I’m sure such a man will bore you and cause quite an unhappy marriage where, if not for his long absences, you would come to despise him. Mr Carter, well I have heard some rumours that his fortune is not as secure as he would have you think, and he might just have proposed to lure you into his bed, for I would not put such a thing past him, but Lord Peter has been nothing but a paragon of virtue.”

Natalie did not hear the noise Lydia made, “please tell me, darling, that you said yes.”

Lydia made a noise that wasn't quite success. “A Lord, Lydia," her mtoher repeated, “a London Lord, why would you not immediately agree?" Natalie could not even understand that, “it would be the making of both yourself and Felicity, you would never want for anything again, you could go to Almacks," the word was said with the sort of reverence Lydia imagine that viking invaders had said Valhalla a thousand years before, and with the same hunger. “Felicity could be presented at London, we shall have to contact the modiste at once, a lord, Lydia," she repeated.

“Mama, he is old enough to be my father," she said, “and I am not sure that I wish to marry at all.”

“Do not be silly," Natalie said, “besides, as your legal guardian I can certainly make the decision for you, and you shan't do better, certainly, he is handsome, has only a few vices that my gossip has told me of, and none of those are ruinous, he is intelligent and perhaps the reason he has not chosen one of those perfect London omegas is simply that none of them were you.” That was a surprisingly sweet comment from her mother. “And you will be a Lady, Lydia, think of how you can introduce Felicity to London society, of course I shall have to come along.”

“He has invited us to London regardless, he wishes that I accompany him, with you, of course, but that we do not announce our engagement so suddenly, he does not wish that you be worried in any way about propriety.”

“Of course not," Natalie said, “he is a lord, he would certainly be above such things.” Lydia raised an eyebrow. “Unless there is a reason he has proposed so quickly," Lydia actually looked up at her mother, and squawked out in indignation, although she had very much certainly offered that to Lord Peter in the hope he might rescind his proposal. “Alpha's can be charming, Lydia," her mother said, “you would not be the first beta girl to fall for a silver tongue and a wandering hand, the lies they tell to get your own way does not alter after marriage, and I may assure they will not die if it is not taken care of.”

“Mama!” Lydia repeated for she had no intention of continuing that conversation with her mother. Portsmouth was full of sailors, and houses of ill repute, she had quite an education, but that did not mean she wished to speak of it with Natalie.

“Did you answer him, Lydia?” Natalie asked.

“I asked for time, mama, three men proposed to me in a single party, I wanted to rush home in case someone else suggested it.” Natalie patted her on the head, “we shall invite Lord Peter to supper in the morning," she said, although Lydia knew her mother would not be out of bed before noon at the very earliest, “perhaps this Saturday if he has nothing else planned, and it will give you a chance to get a new gown, something more suitable for your new station.”

"Mama, we can't really afford it," she protested.

“Nonsense, child, you are about to be a Lady, you should certainly dress like one, because I can assure you that word will be all over Portsmouth by the end of the week." And if it was not through usual methods then Natalie would do her best to spread it, this was the sort of gossip that would keep her in free suppers for months so she could crow amidst her peers, “oh my Lydia, she married a Lord, and I am sure that my Felicity will of course do as well, if not better, it's such a pity that his highness is already married," there would, at this points be fake giggling, “but you must tell me, Helen, how is your daughter doing, this is her third season now, is it not?” Natalie was very predictable.

"Now run back to bed, nothing makes a girl as lovely as having enough sleep,” there was nothing Lydia could do except accept the dismissal for what it was, “now kiss,” Lydia kissed her mother on her cheek as Natalie, dressed for bed in a wool dressing robe and her hair in a cotton cap, pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, “night, darling," she murmured, then to herself “a lord.”

—-

Natalie, wearing glasses with dark lenses and the look of a woman who should have stayed abed for several hours more joined her daughters in the dining room for breakfast. “I had the most pleasing dream," she said as she poured herself her fourth cup of coffee, she was of the opinion that to cure a hangover, which she most certainly did not have, one must take a cup of coffee for every sherry that she had had the night before, but never did. "I dreamt that Lord Peter proposed to you, Lydia.”

“Not a dream, Maman, Mr Carter and Lieutenant Parrish did so as well.”

“Lieutenant Parrish is so boring," Felicity said as she buttered one of the freshly toasted scones, “he's so reliable that one does not need a clock, one can tell the time simply by what it is that he's doing.”

Lydia smirked into her coffee, Felicity had never been one to keep her tongue when she was among trusted company, “and Mr Carter, I do not care for him, I do not know what it is but I feel that he has an agenda and that marrying our Lydia is the least of it, perhaps he is more interested in Papa’s business.”

“Perhaps," Natalie said, “it does not matter for I have decided, now that I am certain that it was not just a pleasant dream brought on by too much lemonade,”

“Sherry," Felicity muttered under her breath, Natalie would have glared at her if she was not quite so hungover.

“That I shall invite him for supper and that, as your mother, Lydia, and with your dear papa in heaven that I can make such decisions for you, with no male or alphas to lead our family, that you will marry him.”

“I do not wish to marry, mama," Lydia said, "I have said such since I was in the nursery.”

“Do not be silly, child," Natalie said, “it is the duty of every one to marry, as a beta girl you will have no greater joy than that of children.”

“That you can marry off without asking them their opinions," Lydia snapped back.

“You must not remain so saucy, girl," Natalie said, banging her hand on the table, “you are lucky you are already spoken for, for none shall accept you with such a tone.”

“Which is what I want, mother," Lydia answered, “if you are so keen to see one of us married to Lord Peter perhaps you shall suggest yourself.”

“If a lord proposed to me I should know better than to refuse," Natalie answered back.

“Then I shall suggest it to him,”

“Perhaps if you remain such an intractable, wilful child, he shall be better suited to marry Felicity.”

Felicity jerked back as if she had been struck, “do not bring me into this argument," she said, “and I have no wish to marry him either, he is old enough to be my father.”

“He's old enough to be mine," Lydia added, “and no one seems to mind.”

“Nonsense," Natalie said, “we would only object if you were old enough to be his mother. You will agree to this, Lydia, it is what is best and it is what I want for you, now I am retiring to my bed, your willfullness is giving me a megrim.” She stumbled to her feet and lurched to the door.

"It's called a hangover," Lydia shouted to her mother’s retreating back.

“Are you really so upset about marrying Lord Peter, or are you upset about marrying?” Felicity always had a rare ability to cut to the matter of things.

Lydia just lay her head on the table, “I don't even know, any more, Flick, I am not quite myself.”

“He likes you, you know," Felicity reached across the table to the jam pot, “he might not be aware of it, but he does appear to be quite smitten, and you could do a lot with his fortune.” She bit into her scone and chewed for a few minutes, “if the reason you did not wish to marry is to make sure of a future for Mama and I then marrying Peter allows you to do so and more, Mama means the best for us, but," Felicity chewed some more, washing down her mouthful with milk, “she just really wants to go to London and that is making her rather stupid at the moment.”

“Do you wish to go to London?” Lydia asked.

“I do not know," Felicity answered, “there are some things I would like to see, of course, but truly, I wish to see Prague, I have heard such stories about it and only seen copperplates in books, but I would sell you in marriage for passage there.” Lydia just groaned in response, wishing, like her mother, she had a hangover that would allow her to return to her bed to rise when she felt more clement.

“We shall write a response to Lord Peter, and if you accept his proposal then you shall have no excuses to not refuse those of Mr Carter and Lieutenant Parrish, and it's for the best with Parrish, he will be better suited for his journey to somewhere far too interesting for a person such as he,” Felicity was not going to let Parrish’s boring nature go, “without worrying if you're going to let him down easily if you already have, he might surprise us all and do something interesting. And I do not care for Mr Carter, if you were considering accepting his proposal I would have to threaten to cut you as my sister,” she took a boiled egg from the bowl and bit into it, “and then we shall find me a suitor in London who will be willing to travel the world with me so that I am as far from Mama when she decides she wants to be a grandmother as I can possibly be.”

Lydia just groaned again.


	11. Chapter 11

Lydia spent the day after the disastrous ball at leisure and despite her sister’s assertions to the contrary, she was not moping. She sent notes to Lieutenant Parrish and Mr. Carter to arrange meetings with them both that she could break their courtships because as much as she might want to fight it Lord Peter was the best option for her to wed.

She informed McAlmont that she would not be receiving guests at all and pulled on her churidar and blouse, knowing she was so out of sorts that she would not be able to get any work done, even if she wished to.

Instead, she sat on her father’s chair drinking tea, the good stuff she had bought herself and not the swill her mother served, stared into the fire and let Semiramis use her like a pillow.

It did not surprise her when Felicity, dressed plainly in a comfortable gown more suited to the nursery, started to bring in the gifts.

She had three suitors after all and as far as they each knew they had an opportunity to win her hand, Lieutenant Parrish, in his wonderful, reliable, sensible way had sent her two books, tied with a brilliant green ribbon, they were illustrations of Naval ships and were beautiful prints, the sort that might be bought for a young gentleman who had lately been bought colours in the Royal Navy.

They were beautiful, just expensive enough that they showed affection without rendering himself penniless, they were a show of how he would take care of her and that he had paid attention to her interests. However buying a book of naval prints for the daughter of a ship yard owner was a safe gift.

It was everything that Parrish was, what Felicity accused him of, and it was not necessarily a bad thing, he would make some girl a perfect husband dutiful and true, he would cherish her but there would be no passion. He would probably never stir a hunger in her breast or anything but the solid assurance that he would do right by her.

It was easy to break things off with him because he was comfortable, it was like discarding an old pair of shoes that were perfectly suited to her feet but with the soles worn thin and that leaked a bit.

She had liked courting him simply because he presented no challenge, she knew that she could resist the cries to marry him and that if she broke it off with him he would not be heartbroken, he would react with the same calm equanimity with which he approached everything else.

He probably expected it anyway, but she would rather not have to return the books. They were very beautiful.

Late afternoon Felicity, with her sewing pinned to her skirt, came in with a basket and could not stop laughing, “Mr. Carter has sent you a gift and the card says that he wants to make sure that you remember his affection,” that said Felicity placed the basket on the desk beside her and Lydia could not resist laughing with her sister.

“A pineapple?” she asked. “What am I supposed to do with a pineapple?”

Pineapples were very expensive and unless you were very rich entirely useless, it was of no more use to Lydia than as a very spiny paperweight. She knew that you were supposed to eat them, but there was no way that anyone knew how to prepare it, did you eat it spines and all? let Semiramis use it as a toy or would she hurt herself on its spines?

“My own suggestion is that you present it to Mr. Carter by asking him to bend over and then you can,”

“Felicity!” Lydia explained, “you are not supposed to know about the vile sexual practices of alphas.”

“I am not the one who suggested he might enjoy it,” Felicity said, “Mama is, of course, going to adopt that poor pineapple as our brother, she shall carry it in it's basket to supper with all of our friends, look, she shall say, Lord Peter, is not only courting my Lydia he gave her a pineapple. I know I have never seen one before, and it does not smell like it would be pleasant, it shall feed her until it rots as she shows it around.”

“Anyone would think they had gifted me the keys to a folly shaped like a pineapple the way that she shall create,” Lydia admitted, “at least that we would have some use for, even if it was only spending summers away from the city.”

Felicity took the other chair, the one beside the window so that she was sat in the pool of sunlight that fell through the bars, and continued with her sewing, “am I a bad daughter for preferring days when Mama is in bed with a hangover?”

“Then we both are,” Lydia said, “shall we get some wine?” she asked, “today is the sort of day that a nice white wine would make better, I think we have several bottles in the cellar.”

“We have more red,” Felicity said, “and I am sure that we have some blue cheese that could do with being eaten, we can certainly send someone out for some nice bread and butter to go with it, Mama has left us to our own devices after all.”

Lydia agreed with her sister, “nevertheless it shall have to be you that makes sure that we have some, I am somewhat pinned in place,” she gestured to the cat asleep on her lap.

“That is not an excuse that will prevent your marriage,” Felicity answered with a smile, as she put down her sewing and went to the bellpull to call for a servant.

“My intent,” Lydia admitted with a grin, “is that on the morning of my wedding I shall set her upon Lord Peter and then wonder, heartbroken of course,”

“of course,” Felicity agreed.

“Why it is that he cannot make it to the altar.” Lydia finished.

“Mama’s face would be priceless,” Felicity admitted, “all those high society hob nobs and Mama in the middle of them but then waiting and waiting and knowing it is the fault of our stinky heavy cat and him being trapped under it, for no mere mortal alpha strength is capable of daring to offend us, especially on his wedding day.”

“It is a little unfair, but it would save him from being related to Mama when she thinks she is capable of advancing in society, I love her fiercely but she is quite unsufferable at times,” Lydia admitted, secure that her sister not only understood but had suffered through it with her.

  
“He has a house in the country, he can leave her there secure she has been taken care of and let the pair of you enjoy London high society,” Felicity said, “then I shall marry well and convince my new husband to take me across the continent and when I finally return I shall write a novel about my journey and then once I have children, I shall leave them with Mama and visit America.”

“You have it all planned out,” Lydia said, rather amazed at her sister, she had not thought that Felicity had made such plans, and they were the sort of thing that were not spoken of in front of their mother.

“Of course, the only thing I am unsure of is the man I shall marry simply to travel with him, and the children I am not entirely convinced on but well my husband should get something for taking me around Europe, an heir is cheaper than a gift.”

Lydia could not help the laugh that bubbled out of her when she had thought that the day would be spent in self-indulgent misery, but she had gotten a pineapple out of it, she wouldn't be expected to return a pineapple would she?

—-

It was dark and the two of them were quite foxed when the parcel came from Lord Peter, there was a short letter that Lydia passed over to her sister as she fumbled with the paper wrapping the parcel.

“What is it?” Felicity said, putting down her wine glass on the table, “is it another pineapple?”

“‘snot a pineapple,” Lydia answered, “pineapples are big and pointy and fruit, this is not big and pointy,” to belabor her point Lydia waved the packet around, it was not very large, certainly no larger than her hand and flat, wrapped with a small white ribbon. It looked nothing like a pineapple, but that did not mean that whatever it was did not have a pineapple motif.

She ripped open the tissue paper to reveal the contents which were a pair of silk garters, in a soft dove gray and embroidered with white and beaded with seed pearls in a floral design. They were both incredibly lovely and incredibly inappropriate.

“He’s sending me underthings,” she said scandalized, “alphas aren't supposed to send you underthings.”

Felicity was not scandalized, as she leaned back into the cushions with her wine, “what I want to know,” she started.

“Is what to do with this pineapple?” Lydia offered.

“No,” Felicity exaggerated her answer, she couldn't not, her lips were a little numb. “Why do they put so much effort into garters when no one gets to see them, I love my red socks, I do, I love them, they’re warm and comfy and soft and warm but I can wear them because no one sees them so why would someone put all that work into a garter, and make them pretty and with pearls and things when no one gets to see them.”

“Peter wants to see them,” Lydia confessed in a loud whisper

“I know,” Felicity put down her wine and stood up, “we should send him an illustration, you can put the garters on and hold your skirt up and I can draw it and we can send it to him.”

This struck Lydia as a brilliant idea, “and we can ask him about the pineapple.”

—-

Peter was about to leave the hotel for a gentleman’s club to which he had been invited in the hope of gaining more information about the mysterious ship that he was in when one of the hotel staff brought him the letter.

He was surprised to see that it was from Lydia who had clearly sent out one of her family’s footmen to bring it to him and he had not expected any kind of response to his gift until at least the morning.

Whilst visiting a tailor in order to fetch some new cravats he had noticed a pair of seed pearl beaded garters that he had thought that his nephew would like to give to his bride, Mischief, and a pretty pair of matching ear fobs with silver ribbon that he thought would suit Lydia most well. He had bought them, had them wrapped in separate packages, sent the garters to London and the earrings to Lydia and had not thought anything of it.

He was in the carriage when he opened the letter which had a pleasant, if unusual scent to it, Lydia's signature perfume which was a mix of lilac and gooseberry and a sharp bite of red wine, and he was glad he was alone in the carriage on his way to an appointment that he could not get out of when he read the letter, or he would have told the driver to turn about and head straight for the Martin household.

The letter was not quite inappropriate but it was clear that Lydia was quite foxed when she wrote it, for her normally neat handwriting was sloppy and there was an illustration that Felicity had scribbled beside, Lydia wearing your gift, and it took Peter a few long moments, much longer than he would have liked to admit, staring at it wondering why she had drawn what appeared to be a rather sloppy gate with her pen, then he realised and burst out laughing.

The tailor had clearly confused the packages, sending the garters to Lydia and the weird gate illustration was supposed to be a pair of legs under a raised skirt wearing the garters.

There was also a strange question about the uses for a pineapple, a mention of aberrant alpha sexual practices, possibly involving the pineapple, and most charmingly instead of being addressed to my lord, as it had clearly been at one point, or even sir, which was also struck out, she had simply sent it to “Peter.”

She had addressed him by name, thanking him for a very inappropriate gift with a very inappropriate letter featuring what was supposed to be a very inappropriate illustration of her wearing the inappropriate gift, one that was, now Peter stopped to think about it, rife with innuendo. There was a reason that people referred to giving people a string of pearls not a pearl necklace after all, and his Lydia, his pretty, plump, perfect Lydia was wearing his pearls.

Even if he had meant to send her a pair of earrings.


	12. Chapter 12

Lydia met with Parrish for breakfast in a small coffeeshop tucked away between a bookshop and a general store, but the coffee was good and strong. It was a dark room with narrow windows but the tables and floor were scrubbed clean. It was one of those stores that straddled the upper class officers and the lower ranks where it was unsure of itself but laborers were unlikely to visit it, but a few of the foremen in the boat yards had spoken well of it.

Although she had eaten in the house there was a spice cake in the cabinet that looked delicious and so with her coffee she had a slice of it with cream, which worked well with the bitter black coffee.

Felicity, who was serving as her chaperone, did not care for coffee and so had the cake with a cup of ginger beer that the patroness admitted was her own so Lydia tipped her well for her kindness.

Jordan Parrish was a handsome man, dark haired but of a sunny disposition, he was pleasantly made but he was simply so agreeable. He filled out his uniform well, and his cravatte was always crisp and neatly tied, he spoke well and listened when she talked and he would make someone a fine husband, but that someone wasn’t Lydia.

He started by complimenting her on her new gown, which was not new, but she had paired it with a squirrel collar, and a pelisse trimmed in grey fur whose provenance she had chosen not to question. The same fur trimmed her tricorn, which was made of clean black felt, and she had chosen to wear her hair tied back simply with a length of ribbon. Felicity was dressed the same but in a dark green where Lydia wore a bronze colour, and Felicity kept her hands shoved into a fur muff that Peter had given Lydia before he had announced his intention to court her.

The day was bitterly cold and Felicity always felt the cold more after a night of overindulgence, so she sat and shivered into the muff after she had eaten her cake and kept her own counsel, possibly taking the opportunity to lean against the wall for a doze, it was hard to tell.

Even if Lydia had met Parrish without a chaperone nothing would have happened, it was just not the sort of person that Lieutenant Parrish was, it was entirely possible he would not even attempt a grope on his wedding night.

“I am sorry that we must do this in such a short time scale,” he said, “but with my orders changing,” which Lydia did not blame on Lord Peter, not at all, “and us shipping out much sooner it did put a time table upon our interactions.”

“I do understand,” she said politely, with her eyes securely downcast, “and I must admit that I have enjoyed our time together.” There was generally a sort of script for these meetings.

“You are going to refuse my proposal, aren’t you?” he asked and it startled her for she had expected much more small talk before they got to the matter at hand.

“Yes,” she admitted, “I am,” she sighed, and went to speak to extol his virtues.

“I had thought as much,” he admitted, “you never seemed as intent in our meetings as I, but when it became clear that I was leavng Portsmouth in the near future I thought that it would be best if I acted outside of my nature and seized the opportunity. Such a one as yourself would, of course, be above my station and hopes,”

“Mr Parrish,” she cut him off, “I will not bear to hear you malign yourself so, you are a good man, you are honest and noble and fair in a world where few are, and you shall make some woman a fine husband, but I am not that woman. I must act in the manner which best serves my family, and my own wishes cannot count, my sister must be my first priority, and if I accepted your engagement then I would be no better than an old maid whilst I waited for your return, and if you did not then I would be on the shelf, and how then can I best provide for my mother and sister?”

How strange it was that little over a week ago he was the best option for the same reasons that she was giving him for breaking it off. "Lord Peter Hale has made an offer for my hand and my mtoher has accepted it, he has no interest in my inheritance and he is wealthy. He has offered to present Felicity to London society.”

“I have heard much of him, it is said that he is not a good man and an inveterate bachelor, but I am not surprised that if any could turn his head and make him consider marriage it would be you.” He offered with a smile.

“Had you been so charming when you were courting me his lordship would not have had a chance for we would already have been engaged,” she offered.

“I do hope that we might remain friends, and that, when I return, if our paths cross again,” she was well aware that they probably would not, “that you would do me the honour of allowing me to put my name upon your dance card.”

“You are an excellent dancer," she told him, letting him squeeze her hand through her glove, “I would be honoured.”

—-

She returned home with her sister, after a leisurely stroll through the markets with a little pin money that they could spend on trifles like candies and ribbons, so it was late afternoon when they returned, giggling amongst themselves at something a woman had thought to wear, and with the weather having turned biting she was not only inappropriate, and unflattered by her ugly dress, but obviously freezing and too proud to admit she had made a mistake in not putting on a pelisse or at least a shawl, if not both for the chill was vicious, and go back for something warmer.

They were still laughing about it when they opened the door and found McAlmont if not deliberately waiting for them, then certainly making sure his duties kept him around the door so that he could intercept them. He had never really treated Lydia’s mother as the matron of the house, which was one of those things that often recommended him to Lydia.

“Mr Carter is waiting for you, miss," he said as he helped her with her pelisse. Lydia pulled a face of confusion because she had had no word that he would be calling upon her and he must have been insistent if McAlmont had even let him in without Lydia present, or, more likely, her mother had given permission.

Natalie very much wanted Lydia to break it off with the suitors she considered unworthy by simple virtue of not being lords. It would not be unlike her to invite him in to wait just so Lydia could break it off with him quicker. Or she had questions about the pineapple. Lydia had questions about the pineapple.

“I shall meet with him immediately,” she told the butler, “and can you bring a jug of the gluhwein i am certain is on the stove, with the day being so bitter and all, to the sitting room.”

He told her that he would and she walked down the hall, which was wide and open and where Mr Carter should be waiting, there was a chair there for guests if thereS was the promise of a short wait, and into the sitting room which was set up for seeing guests.

The Martin house was not large by nobility standards but it had always been a little too large for their social standing, it had two parlours, a dining room and her father’s study, then in the basement was the kitchen with the cook’s adjoining rooms, four large bedrooms on the second floor, with a small box room as well, that Lydia’s father had converted into a bathroom with indoor plumbing for his wife when he bought the house, and then the servant's quarters upstairs.

Both sitting rooms were large, but the family used the smaller one for day to day living and the larger for guests, so if he was not waiting in the hallway then he should have been in the sitting room.

She found him in her father’s study. “Why are you in here?” she asked him sharply.

“Your man said to wait in here,” he answered trying, and failing to look innocent, with his fingers dipped in the pockets of his coat, when she was certain, by the way he was stood behind the desk, that he had been rifling through her father’s papers.

She could not understand why he would want to, for there was nothing there that would have been of use to anyone, for she kept all of the valuable papers in a locked coffer in her bedroom, after someone had broken into the house. All that was there was some personal correspondence and a few bills that she had already paid.

Perhaps he was wondering how much the shipyard that came with her was worth but even so she was incensed, he had come into her home and was snooping through things that had nothing to do with him.

“Ah, Lydia,” he said with a smile, “I thought that I would do you the convenience of coming in person so that we could announce our engagement.”

For the most part Lydia was calm tempered, she was the sort of person who was clever enough and attentive enough that when she walked into a room she knew exactly what to say to bring down everyone there, she hoarded secrets like a dragon, but she did not choose to do so.

Felicity had a dry wit, but Lydia could be cruel.

“You arrogant ass,” she snarled, her good temper consumed by a flashfire rage, “you barge into my home, and do not even abide by the conventions of society, sizing up my father’s study to see how it would suit you because you assume that I shall marry you simply because you asked and provided me with a pineapple. I am not some silly girl who shall raise her hems simply because a man gave her a compliment, and there is no compliment in your proposal or expectation that I would agree simply because you asked.

“I asked for time simply because it was polite and I did not want the evening to be soured by having to reject you publically, but Mr Carter I never had any intention of marrying you, I cannot say that I overmuch enjoyed your company, you are a petty man who obsequeiously forced his attentions upon me knowing that I could not afford to refuse in public. Now you treat my house like it is your own when it should be obvious to any and all that I never had any intention of allowing you to press your suit, I told you, on several occasions, that i had no intent to marry and yet you assume.” She let her breath out through her nose in a slow breath, “No, Mr Carter, I shall not marry you,” she said, “and if you need that in writing you chose the right room to barge into.”

“Lydia,” he said outstretching his arms towards her, “if you wish me to be more forthcoming in presenting my affection,” he started.

She cut him off. “No, Mr Carter, I do not.”

“You cannot mean to marry that milksop, Parrish,” he said, “he can offer you nothing, I doubt he could even satisfy you in the bedroom, even if you did like his mild manners.”

Lydia tried to calm herself, “I am engaged, Mr Carter, to Lord Peter Hale,” she said, it was the first time she had said it out loud, for she had not told Peter himself yet.

He barked out a laugh, “Lydia, you do not have to lie to gain more displays of affection from me," he said.

Lydia walked past him to the bell pull and did not have to wait long for McAlmont and the two footmen to join her, “Mr Carter seems disinclined to accept my refusal of his proposal, and I would like him escorted from the house.”

“You uppity little bitch,” Carter hissed, “I shall ruin you,” he said, “I shall tell all of Portsmouth how you raised your skirts for me, and that you have cast me off only because you lured in someone richer.”

“If you would follow me, sir,” McAlmont said, raising to his full height and his accent more broad than it was usually, suggesting that he was losing his temper.

“I shall tell all of Portsmouth that you are a whore, Lydia Martin,” Carter continued, “ready to spread her legs for anyone with the coin.”

“And you wanted me to marry you?” Lydia asked, “and this entire display is because I told you that you won’t, I do not care what you tell all of Portsmouth because all know already that you proposed.”

She stood with both hands on her father’s desk until she had caught her breath, then she pulled out a piece of paper from the drawer and her pen, writing a quick note, not to Lord Peter as she had first intended until her rage had cooled, but to his reeve, Mr Raeken. It seemed the best option that she send word of Mr Carter’s behaviour not to Lord Peter who might want to comfort her when the last thing she wanted was male company, but Mr Raeken who would certainly deal with it.


	13. Chapter 13

Theo was surprised when the member of hotel staff brought a letter delicately scented with lilac and gooseberry that was addressed to him and not to Peter. It was clearly from Miss Martin but that did not make any sense to him so he broke the seal whilst he picked at his tea.

Miss Martin had a fair hand, with a gently looping script that looked almost copperplate and the content of her letter made it clear it was in regards to something much better suited to Theo than to Peter. Theo could easily deal with this without the furore that Peter getting involved would entail, whether he intended to or not.

There was something very interesting in the letter, whether or not Miss Martin had included to tell him that. Mr Carter had taken the opportunity of being trusted to wait in the hall to go into the late Mr Martin's study and rifle through the papers on the desk as if he already owned both the house and the shipyards to which those papers pertained.

It could be simple alpha possessiveness, deciding that since he wanted Miss Martin and her inheritance that it would simply be a matter of the legal formalities being met - Peter himself was no exception in this matter, he had even put in place measures to ensure her acceptance, measures that Mr Carter could not hope to replicate without Peter’s place in society, and it was clear that Miss Martin would accept if she was asking Theo to take care of her little problem.

Although Miss Martin had complained of the slander that Mr Carter had hoped to inflict on her, forcing her to accept his suit, it was that Mr Carter was interested in Mr Martin’s papers.

Peter had come to Portsmouth to find out who wanted the designs for the ship Semiramis, even if he had gotten distracted by a pretty pair of ankles, and everything seemed to come back to Mr Jeremiah Cole who was never at his lodging, had his mail delivered to a solicitor, Mr Whittemore, and never appeared in public. The only way to Mr Cole was Mr Whittemore and he could not be forced to give up any intelligence on a client at fear of losing his livelihood and as Mr Whittemore had yet to do more than vaguely annoy Peter there was no need to take him out for actually doing his job.

But Carter provided a very interesting opportunity to relieve some stress for even if he was innocent Peter was not the sort of person who would let someone slander what he already considered to be his. So if nothing else he could certainly deal with him, but if Peter learned about it before it was taken care of there would be far too much drama, and it would be pistols at dawn and then the papers would report it again and Peter’s relatively low profile in Portsmouth, as much as a lord of Peter’s calibur could be considered low profile but he was being recognised as a guest who was covetted not the spy he actually was.

He finished his tea, a ploughman's spread of ham and cheese with sharp pickled silverskin onions, served with a thick slab of rye bread and fresh salted butter, and visited Peter where he was taking his tea, with featured actual tea and delicately iced fancies, because Peter had a terrible sweet tooth, and said that he was popping out and he would be back by supper. Or at least that was the plan.

He also left out Miss Martin's letter for it would not be too inappropriate for Peter to call on her if she was distressed and with Theo out and about he could not simply challenge the man, because he hated dealing with bodies and that's why he had Theo.

It said a lot in Miss Martin's favour that she was both intelligent and insightful enough that she realised that the best person to solve her problem was not Peter, who she had so wrapped around her finger that he would try to pull the moon from the sky for her, but Theo.

—-

Theo found Donovan in the same slum bar where he had met with Corey those weeks before. The wench at the corner leered at him and offered him some of her time, he tipped her and took a bottle of gin instead.

Fortunately Donovan was not too far into his cups.

“I have a job for you,” Theo said, “one that involves a fair night's pay for a night’s work that you are perfectly suited for.”

Donovan was not so drunk that he wasn't immediately suspicious, which was a good sign. “Depends on the job," he said pouring himself a glass from the bottle that Theo had put on the table.

“A gentlemen of my employer’s acquaintance has decided to offend him, not in the fatal sort of way, and he wants it dealt with quickly and quietly, no muss, no fuss.”

“And when you say taken care of," Donovan left it open.

“Just a beating, nothing permanent of course, just something to impress on him that his behaviour is not acceptable and he should keep his mouth shut.”

Donovan emptied the cup he had just filled and began to talk money.

—

The next morning over coffee Theo informed Peter that Mr Carter had departed Portsmouth and would be spending the rest of the year, and into the next spring, with his brother in Northampton having graciously accepted that Miss Martin had rejected his proposal.

Peter thanked Theo for his usual discretion and asked if there was anything else he needed to know.

“Your engagement to Miss Martin is in the newspaper today,” Theo said, “apparently Mrs Martin informed someone and well the gossips checked with her and found it to be true.”

“She is yet to accept me,” Peter said a little forlorn, because Theo had long since learned that Miss Martin turned his brilliant conniving employer into a knot head. Perhaps when they married he would regain some of his senses after emptying his knot into her.

“She is already using your commodities as her own,” Theo said referring to himself.

“That was very clever of her, was it not, if I had intervened on her behalf I might have done too much and dumped Mr Carter in the ocean in a sack with a rock tied to his ankles and Lydia was quite adament she did not want to see him drafted into the navy, which of course was an option as well.” Peter was going to be useless, it would be Theo who solved the mystery of the Semiramis, because Peter was so smitten he could no longer think of anything but her - not that he would hear a word of it of course. As far as Peter was concerned he was the same ruthless bastard he always was.

“As amusing as it is to see you with your wits dribbling out of your ears we’re not in Portsmouth for you to lose your mind over a pair of well turned ankles,” Peter had such a perfect “I would never" look of indigation that Theo wished Mr Gainsborough was there to sketch it so he could record it in oils for all posterity. He could put it the wall of their London home so everyone who came to visit could see that look and all that fear that Peter inspired in people would immediately collapse because right then, in his nightshirt and with his hair unstyled, sat in bed drinking coffee, with his hand pressed to his chest as if clutching his pearls. It was a tragedy that Theo could not share it.

“Shall I make the arrangements to move the entire operation to London when you can return to your own comfortable bed, for you have done little but complain about the hotel’s comforts, and bring your maiden and her chaperones with us, for we have been stalled here for nearly a week. Once you marry the chit all of those papers will legally be your own regardless so you can certainly root through his office on your own with none to question your intentions. But whoever broke into the house to search for those papers did so on request, and when I spoke to the reprobate who had been paid for the job, then farmed it out for a fraction of it's worth,” Peter nodded like he would do exactly the same. “He could tell me little about who paid him as the instruction was delivered by a servant and in writing, which the servant had read to him. He had no idea what the man had looked like, even when he had been pressed,” he had been pressed by several fists - Theo had had skinned knuckles for days.

“Unless Jeremiah Cole appears from whatever hole he has buried himself in, for he is not in his lodgings and has not been for several weeks, and he is the only person who might be able to answer our questions, but he is still answering mail so he has not been kidnapped, we might as well return to London. Even Lady McCall cannot complain about you introducing your bride to society when she is the one that gives access to the records that Lady McCall is so desperate to acquire.”

“You are not supposed to know about Lady McCall,” Peter said.

Theo picked at one of the scabs on his knuckles, these ones courtesy of Mr Carter, “I would be a terrible reeve if I did not know all of your secrets, that is, after all, my job.” Theo grinned at him, “I am the one who has to know your secrets before they become problematic, so they can be fixed without scandal.”

“Nevertheless I would appreciate if you chose to forget that piece of information entirely, for his majesty might be a lot less forgiving of your curiousity than I,” Peter meant well but clearly he had lost all of his wits because Theo had done so many tasks for Lady McCall and had trusted that he would keep her secrets.

The sooner Peter married and returned to his wits the better.

—-

Lydia recieved the letter in the morning, complete with a packet containing a lovely dove grey shawl, formally inviting her, her sister and her mother to spend the season with Peter in London as his guest for the London season, and that she could pack lightly for he would have the finest modistes dress the three of them, and to be certain to take their cat, for Peter knew how fond of her that they were and his nephew’s bride, Mischief, would be delighted for he adored animals and they were not to worry about the expense for he considered it part of his courtship of Lydia - that he could provide for her and her family, and that the carriage to take them to London would come at the end of the week, but that Peter had had to return to London before then and he would not hear a refusal, and that, Lydia found, pulling the shawl, a shetland wedding ring shawl of the finest white wool that was both light and warm and as light as a feather, was that.


	14. Chapter 14

The journey to London was arduous. A icy rain seemed to follow them from Portsmouth and with it came a wind that was determined to push through the heavy curtains on the carriage. Although the carriage was well sprung and beautifully upholstered after a short period it became uncomfortable, because there was nothing to do but wrap themselves up in lap rugs, and get jostled, with the damp curtains exuding a chill when they weren't pushed out of the way by the wind letting the sheeting rain in.

Every comfort that they could have was provided for but for two days they moved from inn to inn, using open privies and pisoir, eating in common rooms, although Peter had told them to take private rooms, and taking every opportunity that they had to stretch their legs.

Lydia clung to her new shawl, which was surprisingly warm, over her pelisse.

A so-called gentleman in an inn just outside London made an imposition of Felicity that caused Bond, who was acting as her chaperone, to slap him across the face, and their mother to exclaim that Lord Peter should have sent his man to accompany them for there were to prevent such problems, but Lydia just topped up her sherry glass. Her mother wasn't incorrect in her assumptions about it, but Lydia was tired, travel exhausted her, and she was too tired to put up with it. After checking that the man in question had done nothing but speak to Felicity, because if there had been anything else then Lydia would have had to deal with it, well send Peter’s man to do it.

They arrived at the London house through a large gate and down a small driveway. The housekeeper met them at the door as footmen attended to their luggage, “you must be Miss Martin,” the woman said to Felicity, as Lydia tried to lift the basket that they used allowing Semiramis to travel as one of the footmen tried to wrestle it from her.

“I’m Miss Felicity,” Felicity corrected her, “this is Miss Martin.”

Lydia was smaller than her sister by several inches and her beauty was much softer, her hair a more golden red, and she was currently arguing with one of the footmen over a fat and smelly cat who was yowling in a basket it didn't want to be in. Lydia turned at the mention of her name.

“Come inside, come inside, Lord Peter is out for the day with their Grace, but we expect him back for supper, I shall have baths drawn for you and something to eat, if you will just give Roland the basket," she looked at where Lydia was half supporting the weight of the basket with Semiramis in it, “we can take the cat to the kitchen and make sure she has something for high tea as well.” Lydia didn't mention the cat’s propensity for helping herself to unattended cups of tea.

The housekeeper, who later introduced herself as Mrs Finch, was a small, compact beta with dark brown hair she wore neatly tucked back and an apron over a drab coloured, but well maintained gown. There was a chatelaine with keys, snips and other necessary items hanging from her waist.

She led them up a wide marble stairscase with a thick red carpet held in place with brass rods, there was plinths breaking up the balustrade with fresh flowers in urns, and trailing behind them was four footmen carrying their trunks between them, excepting Roland, who having extricated the basket from Lydia had taken it to the kitchen. “Well, sister,” Felicity said, coming up to Lydia as they walked into the woodpanelled corridor with huge portraits of what were clearly family members, hanging upon the wall, with the curtains pulled tight against the thin winter sun, “I have decided that if you do not marry Lord Peter, I shall.”

Mrs Finch opened the door to what was meant to be Lydia’s bed chamber. It was a large room, much bigger than she was used to, with a large duck egg blue and cream rug that reached almost to the walls and showed only a small stripe of the dark polished wooden floor, but that was covered in chairs. The walls were a duck egg blue, with two standing wardrobes, and a dressing table, there were a few cushioned chairs in front of the fire, but the stand out was the bed.

It was canopied, which was not unusual, but the canopy was held in place with two large urns, and was some of the finest embroidery that Lydia had ever seen, midnight blue silk covered in hand stitched peonies and phoenix birds, with vines. The interior was white, with the Hale crest embroidered into the headboard, and the exterior was a dark blue, both with the exotic and abstract flowers. “It is from China," Mrs Finch said, “fine enough for an emperor, Lord Peter has an estate there and works with a family in London in the import of their artworks, when he made the decision to court you, my lady, he had the coverings taken out of storage for your use.”

“I’m not a lady,” Lydia muttered under her breath, left speechless by the glory of the bed.

“I beg to differ,” Mrs Finch corrected her, “if you are not now you will be once the marriage vows are read, you will be treated by my household as if you were already Lady Hale, for it is easier to have them extend deference from your arrival then them change their manners later, “if you would prefer to remain here I can see your mother and your sister to their rooms, your staff, which of course you are welcome to change if you prefer, are on hand if you wish to bathe.”

“Lydia," Felicity said, looking at the bed and the room with a sense of awe, “I take it back, I’m more than happy to marry Lord Peter now.”

“This is nothing extraordinary,” Mrs Finch said, “to the family house in Cheshire" she said, “and the house in Brighton is certainly more fine, and of course the rustic house in Derbyshire, but Lord Peter most often calls London home.

Lydia was eager to see the rooms put aside for her mother and sister, and to explore even though she was tired and she did want a bath and there were too many decisions, and there was Grecian goddesses in plaster on the ceiling, she noticed when she sat down heavily on a padded bench because although she had spent the last few days sat in a carriage she was tired.

Her mother was in a room with the same fabric covering the walls as did the bed, which was in a lit a la turque style, the room was smaller and the furniture was not so fine, but no expense had been spared in dressing the room, the fabric styled with abstract rowan berries and a huge mirror stood atop the mantle, which reflected a pair of chairs in front of the fire.

Felicity, they were told, had been put into the nursery which was not quite so lavish as the guest bedrooms, but that she would perhaps find more intimate. The walls were plastered and polished, painted a cream colour, and the rug on the floor was a dark staid colour, the bed was a large one, set against the wall in a lit a la polonaise style and covered in white and sage green hangings. Unlike the other two rooms the nursery was south facing and got plenty of light, there was a table with a doll house, and a toy theatre, clearly left over from the childhood of other people who lived in the house but unlike the more staid and lavish bedrooms this had softer edges, a small room next to it with a permanent bath and dumb waiter, and several potted plants. The entire suite felt lived in and comfortable without being as offensively expensive as the other two, and, Lydia had to admit, suited Felicity’s simpler tastes very well indeed.

—-

Lydia bathed and took high tea alone in her room, before she asked one of her new maids, who stood at the door with their hands folded in front of their skirts and their eyes downcast, each of them with a square of fine linen and lace over the buns which had been made of their hair, three of them waiting attendance on her, just waiting for her to make some sort of request of them, if it would be okay if she visited one of the sitting rooms, or if there was a book she might read.

One of them, their names had flashed past too quickly for her but she knew she would learn them by the end of the day, giggled, “we were told to treat you like you were already Lady Hale,” she said, “that means that you are to treat this house as if it is your own, if you wish to sit in one of the parlours we can show you them to find one for you to prefer, but would you like to go to the library first, it is only small, but I am sure it will have something for you to read.”

“A library?” she asked, “I am sure his lordship will regret introducing me to such luxury.”

—-

Lydia allowed the maids to dress her and style her hair for supper with Lord Peter, she expected that she would be dressed in a maiden’s colours but he clearly had no intention, and her mother had a surprise megrim and, for the first time in her life, needed Felicity to look after her. She was as subtle as a sledge hammer in her intent that her daughter spend the meal alone with Lord Peter, because if he compromised her there would be no backing out of the marriage, or maybe she was just a romantic.

Lydia felt strange pulling on the beautiful golden silk gown over her shabby seeming new undergarments, the dress was in the place between beta and omega fashion, where it was unclear which the lady in question was, and had a jacquard skirt which was mustard coloured with golden flowers, the front had a false stomacher outlined by pinked ruffles, the same which covered the opening of the mantua ver the skirt and the collar, and had large sprays of lace, held in place by smaller versions of the ruffles, at her elbow. It was neither too fine for a beta or not fine enough for an omega and it was paired with simple pearl fob and a choker made up of the golden ruffles, and the skirt was wider than she was used to, the sort that she had always joked made a lady take up an entire couch instead of a single seat.

Then she went down to an intimate dining room where, when he saw her, Peter stood up and quickly wiped his hands down on the fabric of his pants, as if they were suddenly damp and he wanted to hide it as he took her hand and led her to the chair. “You look beautiful,” he said, “firelight is kind to your skin.”

It was not the first time that Lydia had heard the compliment but it was the first time it had affected her so starkly and she didn't know why. “I wondered if the gown would suit you," he said, “I was worried," he took a large mouthful of his wine, “that you might not like me unless I showered you in gifts, strange isn't it?”

Lydia ducked her eyes before she spoke, “I am wearing the last gift you gave me.”

Peter was not quite quick enough to catch the wine he sprayed with a napkin, then he, which surprised her, blushed. “That was something of an error, my nephew, Derek, he wished to buy a pair of garters for his new bride, and I saw a pair of ear fobs that I thought you might like, and the store got the parcels confused.”

“Then you did not mean to buy me a pair of pearl garters?” She took a swallow of her wine so she didn't have to look at him.

“I did not intend to be quite so improper, because I don’t want you to think ill of me.” He was earnest and he wouldn’t match her eyes so they were both surprised when the young man opened the door and walked in, he was wearing a tiara, twisted into his short black hair, a pair of long onyx earfobs, and a brightly coloured saronga such as sailors wore in places like Hong Kong. From the table between them he took the decanter of wine, “we ran out," he said in a very thickly accented voice before, with no more ceremony than he had entered, left the way he had came.

“My nephew’s young bride," Peter said, “the one who should have gotten the garters.”

Lydia watched the door for a moment before she added, “he has the legs for them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lydia's dress is based on the one laura linney wore in her run of dangerous liaisons
> 
> and the bed - oh yes - the bed  
> it's based on the one in calke abbey  
> http://www.ntprints.com/image/348728/the-state-bed-with-colourful-chinese-silk-hangings-which-probably-came-to-calke-abbey-in-1734-with-the-marriage-of-lady-caroline-manners-and-sir-henry-harpur-5th-baronet


	15. Chapter 15

Lydia was not prepared to wake up in the Hale house in London, for the whole affair had the stink of fuss. She was bundled from her warm and comfortable bed to the commode, then to a basin of steaming water in front of the fire where her shift was stripped from her, and she, despite maintaining that she was more than capable of washing herself, was cleaned, dried and placed into a new shift despite her arguments

The whole thing was so efficient that by the time she was sat to have her hair dressed Lydia felt like her head was spinning. The maid made the decision to dress her hair _a la grecque_ using talcum scented with lilacs to help it set, then she was helped to her dress and put in a riding habit clucking about how the Duchenne liked to spend that day of the week shopping and she was certain that they’d take Mistress Lydia too, before she was urged down the hall to a small sitting room where the Duchenne was polishing off a pastry and sucking his fingertips between bites.

When she came in, possibly looking as baffled as she felt, he stood up and pulled out one of the cushioned armchairs for her and waving at one of the footmen at the side of the room to bring more coffee and a plate for her.

“Thank you, your grace,” she said, with a curtsey.

“None of that," he said, “we are family, well, we’ll be family soon enough as soon as Peter gets you to the church, I’m half sure he’s avoiding the special licence just to save your reputation, or he wants to make sure you have the perfect dress and a sketch artist in the gallery so it can be captured forever because he is very smitten with you indeed.” He spoke well but with a heavy accent reminding her the llittle that Peter had said to him about the Duchenne, that his nephew the Duke had brought him back from his grand tour. “It is, of course, hilarious, no one thought Peter would ever marry so the town is alive with gossip, and half are convinced you are with child and that your father is very good at duels indeed.”

“My father is dead," Lydia said, “but I think my mother might be desperate enough for her daughters to marry Lords that she would learn to duel if she thought it would give her an advantage.”

The Duchenne’s laugh was a loud bark and it seemed to take up his entire being, with his hands slapped down on the table’s veneer and making his coffee cup rattle on its saucer.

He was a handsome young man, no older than Lydia herself, with dark brown hair, eyes like chips of amber in the sunlight, and a soft pink mouth, there was a triangle of beauty marks beside one ear that would be the envy of the ton. He was dressed in a shirt and lace cravat, fixed in place by a cameo brooch, and a red and gold vest that she could only see the top of from where he sat.

When the footman came in, followed by a wheezing Semiramis who had, even in Portsmouth, a propensity for following people carrying trays in the hope of gaining sweets, or helping herself to unattended cups of tea, he placed his tray with two cups, on saucers, and more of the pastries, along with two boiled eggs in a bowl, with a pot of butter to the side and a bowl of salt.

“I am unthoughtful," the Duchenne said, showing that although his English was very good it was not perfect, “I did not ask you what it was that you liked to eat, and left the kitchens to decide.”

That moment of kindness and the respecting her choice, and Semiramis leaping up onto her velvet skirt was enough for Lydia to lose her temper. “Since I have met your uncle I do not believe I have been asked my own opinion on a single thing," her hand fell down to scratch the cat between her ears, “I have been told what to wear, how to dress my hair, and what to eat to have him think the best of me, and then today, before I had woken completely my maid had me bundled down the hall, dressed and preened, to have breakfast with you and at no point have we even exchanged names.”

For a moment the Duchenne looked a little hurt, and Lydia was no so vain as to think it was on her behalf, then he held out his hand, pulled it back wiping it on a napkin, and held it out for her to shake, like she was an equal, not a simple beta girl who happened to be marrying someone much higher than her social status, and that he was not the omega mari of a duke. “I’m Stiles,” he said, “no one in this country can do anything but mangle my name, even my love, God bless him, has it tangle in his mouth and catch on his teeth, but even in Prague they could not manage it, my mother named me after her father, and he had the sort of name common amongst the peasants of a local area, although if they named their sons for him or him for their sons I do not know, so almost everyone calls me Stiles.”

“Peter calls you Mischief," Lydia couldn’t help the words falling from her mouth, but she did want to try, any more than she could stand with the cat on her lap, already helping herself to the little pot of butter.

“Yes,” the Duchenne, Stiles, said, “he thinks that I am mischievous and playful for I talk too much and have no patience for the servants trying to bully me into things that I should be doing, and with Aunt Grisel, she is Peter’s aunt, she will tell you what to do, she tells everyone what to do, very few listen, but she will tell you, the poor Hales are very correct in how they behave in regards to propriety and yet bah! Nonsense,” he grinned at her, sitting back down at last, “we shall do as we like an it harm none, that is how I learned, we have a single life and we should live it, that we have no regrets when we go to the last lands, but I talk too much and laugh too loud for the Ladies and Mari of the _ton_ , they will cover their hands with their mouths when I speak like they might catch the vapors, what care I for their good thoughts, and if your maid tells you what to do remind her that she is hired to do your will, not you to hers, but eat, eat, if there is something you wish,” he broke open one of the eggs and placed it before Semiramis as he handed over the now empty butter pot to the footman, “Roland here will bring it, but come now, turn your face to the light, a little, let me have a look at you.” He looked at her for a minute, urging her to eat her fill, and squinting and making a frame with his hand, “tell me, Lydia, have you ever been painted?”

—-

After Lydia had completed breakfast, and after a few minutes conversation with Felicity, the two of them were led into the Duchenne’s studio which was adjoining the Orangerie, which was a large room with glass walls and ceiling and rows of pots full of citrus trees and raspberry bushes, there was even redcurrants and blackcurrants, ripe and lush, and the gardeners had been seen moving when they arrived but Stiles knocked on the window and they left quickly. It was obviously something pre-arranged and he had chosen the room for its light.

There was a screen against the far wall, with beautiful Turkish fretwork and little glass panels that caught the light, and in the middle of the room was a cushioned bench with a rug draped over it, “having you in the house makes things such easier,” Stiles said, rooting through a pile of fabric, unaware he was tangling his words, “you are beautiful and you will make beautiful art, can you put that on?” he asked, handing her what looked like a sheet, and opening a coffer of jewelry and rooting through it. Lydia didn't really get the opportunity to say much except go behind the screen with Felicity, handed a similar sheet, and the two of them were giggling as they tried to figure out how it was worn.

When they emerged, “no, no," Stiles said and pushed them back behind the screen, “no corsets, you are beautiful, you do not need to hold and stuff and support, I will show you.” He had removed his vest, hanging it on a hook from the wall, and with quick hands he made short work of Felicity’s corset and shirt, pointing out he was an omega and married, he had no interest in her except for her lovely skin.

The gowns he had given Felicity were paired sheets, that were gathered at the shoulder and elbow by brooches, and he put a golden cord around her waist that pulled the dress in and allowed it to gape at her neck, “beautiful," he said, “like Roman goddess," before turning his attention to helping Lydia with her chiton. He took a step back admiring her before he pursed his full mouth, “do you mind?” he asked, undoing one of the brooches on her shoulder to reveal her naked breast, “much better, is it well?”

Carried along with his excitement she agreed but pinned it back up until she was in pose because there was posing for a painter with one breast revealed, and then there was just sitting around with one nipple out which struck her as being very out of character, he offered them jewellery and posed them, before building up the fire in the grate so the room was warm. He piled cushions up on the bench, and pulled a chaise from the side of the room so that the bench became a sort of daybed, “Felicity," he said, “if you can just lie across the pillows on your side,” she did as he said, giggling about how exciting it was to be a painting, and he flipped open her skirt to bare her leg, “now Lydia," he sat her down in front of her sister and tilted her legs so the skirt hung over one but revealed the other and then bared the other breast, so it was still one but not the one she expected, pressing her fist against the cushion to support her, with gold bangles on her wrist and cuffs on her bicep, and the other resting against a box he put in place, “Aphrodite and her attendant,” he said, and then perched on his high stool began sketching on a piece of parchment with a pencil, the same sort of tiny pencil that would be attached to dance cards of which he seemed to have a small collection of.

He talked as he worked, making small adjustments to their pose, having Felicity sit up behind her sister and rest her arm on Lydia’s lap behind her, changing the way Lydia held her head, and telling Felicity to undo her hair so it fell in what he called a “Titian wave” as he worked, using stale bread to erase the marks he made, and changing things.

The door opened and Peter stepped in so quickly neither girl had the opportunity to cover up, he started on a half conversation “Mischief, have you seen?” then took in what was in the room, as Stiles jumped off his stool and started haranguing him for not knocking which he had been told a hundred times to do.

Lydia immediately covered her breasts with her hands, and Felicity burst out laughing but if it was nervous Lydia wasn’t sure, she was blushing too fiercely, trying to cover herself with the rug on the bench, made more difficult by sitting on it, and that Felicity seemed to have the lion's share as Stiles did his best to push Peter to the door with his entire body.

“Oh come now, Lydia," Felicity said, putting her chin back on her sister’s shoulder, “you're to be married, you can't object to him seeing your breast, and it’s only one of them," she clearly found the whole thing hilarious but as she was not sat with one breast on display it was easier for her. “Think of it as an engagement gift, here you go, have a quick glance of my left tit.”

“Felicity!” Lydia said, scandalized by the words her sister was using.

“It was an accident," she said, “no more scandalous than him interrupting you whilst dressing, you have to see the funny side, it’s not like you’re flashing your cunny at him.”

“He never knocks,” Stiles said, offering her his vest from over the door, “I tell him again and again, you must knock, I am sorry, but come see, it will not be finished for many weeks but you can see,” and the image of the two sisters, the rough pencil sketch on the paper showed the lines of them, the open innocence in Lydia's face and the cunning knowledge in Felicity’s, Lydia’s gaze heavy and almost cheeky, even in the sketch, and Felicity challenging the viewer. The painting would be beautiful, even the folds of the fabric were in place, but there was no color, no depth, just the skeleton of what was coming, but Lydia, still embarrassed could only really focus on the breast hanging out of the chiton where anyone could see it.


	16. Chapter 16

Grisel Abernathy was Peter’s aunt, and the years, instead of making her soft and kind, if a little deaf, had done the complete opposite making her smaller, harder, and with hearing like that of a bat. She was the sister of whichever of Peter’s parents, Lydia did not know which, had married into the Hales, and it never escaped her wits that she was a Harris of Dundee and she would die one, no matter who she married, or which family she imposed on.

She brought with her to London, in the hope that he might marry, ideally someone well bred and monied, her other nephew Adrian Harris, who Stiles suggested was both broke and insufferable but no matter how many times it was suggested that Adrian leave the ghastly aunt invited herself and him back. He was tall and slender, with spectacles and an expression like someone had swiped sour milk under his nose and he was restraining the urge to vomit.

He accompanied his aunt everywhere, pushing her in her bath chair and being the apple of her eye, when everyone else was clearly the serpent who was determined to corrupt her precious nephew, that being Harris, not Peter, she was apparently chronically disappointed by Peter, and she sat in her bath chair like it was a throne and looked down on everyone. Even, according to Stiles, the duke himself.

“The house," Stiles said as he waited for Lydia to finish getting ready for dinner, “it is very large, mostly they are,” he waved his hand suggesting that they didn’t interact, “but you are here and she wishes to disapprove,” he said the word with a different accent, “no one is good enough for her Adrian, it does not matter that it is Peter who wishes to marry you, you will not be good enough. I am not good enough for her Adrian," he said, “even though I was married to Derek by the time that we met, she will squint," he leaned forward narrowing his eyes, “and scowl and you will not be good enough, nothing is good enough, if the Virgin Mary herself descended from Heavens and said, Adrian we should wed, she would not be good enough. Ignore her, she is old and mean, but she is family, and we don’t have enough of that.”

The gown that Lydia was wearing, because she wanted to dress well before she met the Duke, because as much as Stiles told her that they didn't wait on ceremony he was a Duke, was a printed red taffeta robe Anglais, with a teal stomacher and skirt under the mantua which was detailed with small yellow ribbon roses and teal machine lace. It was not quite the finest thing she had ever worn but it was certainly close. To accompany it her maid had found a ribbon with a small cameo brooch but made of wedgewood pottery instead of shell.

Stiles had changed his vest for a silk one in the same colour and had pulled on a frock made of dark brown corduroy embroidered with the same pink as his vest. “Normally, Derek and I would eat in our room but you are here, we have enough people to make it worth using the big table, and if we do, then Aunt Grizzel," he carefully sounded out the syllables, “shall be present, souring the meat like vinegar, and Adrian of the,” he pulled a face, “but you are beautiful, she shall hate it, and it will be great fun, and afterwards when she has gone to bed with a hot brick then we shall have a coze,” she was yet to learn that this was the word Stiles used for get so drunk our maids have to put us to bed.

—

Grisel Abernathy was old, and the years had made her sour, her husband had died within ten years of her marriage and she had taken to widowhood with the same glum acceptance she had accepted marriage, and the following decades had turned a basic distaste for humanity into what might more rightly be called a seething hatred. She wore a black satin dress with a black lace fichu covering whatever skin the dress, which looked like it had been stitched for a much larger lady, exposed, and she wore a black lace cap over white hair that made her sour expression even more extreme, like a walnut in a gown. 

Everything about her gave the impression she hadn’t smiled or even been anything other than disgusted in the last forty years.

Her nephew, Harris, was well turned out, although it was clear he was determined to dress more like the Hales although there was something about him, perhaps it was the arrogance he had in exchange for confidence, but he wore a velvet Stevenson and white pants, and he looked more like a poseur than a gentleman. He stood to the left of his aunt’s bathchair, looking for all the world like he was her minion.

“Come here," Grisel said in a voice like a thunderclap. Lydia looked around to see if it was her that was being addressed and deciding that it must be she stepped forward. “Not you,” she continued, “the pretty one.”

Felicity gave her sister the sort of look that was reserved for being appreciated over her sister, even if it was a nasty old lady calling her prettier, before she crossed the room. 

“You are looking beautiful," Stiles said slipping his arm through hers, “your maids are doing wonders considering we haven't had a wardrobe made for you yet, has Peter given you jewellery yet?”

“There was a pair of pearl garters,” Lydia said, “He says he gave them to me in error but he is the sort of man who would give me pearl garters in the hope that I would lift my skirts for him, instead I sent him an illustration," she said proudly, “that I am not an artist and my watercolours are poor is irrelevant, the gift was there.”

Stiles brayed out a laugh, steering her towards the fire place that he might pick up a glass of red wine as they walked, “He is absolutely the sort of person who would give you pearls to make you lift your skirts, but then again, he's an alpha, and a lord, he’s used to getting his own way.” He took a sip of his wine, “so your power is certainly in not allowing him his own way, but ensuring that it is your way that he gives in to.”

Lydia looked over to her sister, Grisel had reached out with a hand like a claw to Felicity’s bare arm and was pulling her closer and leaning forward herself to talk into her face, and Felicity looked like she was regretting that moment of schadenfreude over being considered prettier than her sister. 

“Now come, Lydia, you must meet my husband," Stiles said, “and you have no wine, I find when we eat like this with the whole family gathered that wine is often preferable to the food," he gestured with his glass that the footman bring the tray closer, offering Lydia a glass and having his own refilled. “We have a most amazing cook, but we also have a cellar, and well,” he looked over his shoulder at the old woman who seemed to be terrorising Felicity but only with her attentions and certainly not to the extent that she needed rescue yet, “the cellar is more welcome," Lydia nodded and took a mouthful of wine.

The Duke was a handsome gentleman who when Stiles approached him split his face into a grin. He was perfectly turned out in an emerald green superfine over a grey striped vest and white breeches, he had a trimmed beard and a nose like a knife point, but he looked at Stiles as if he had hung the moon, before Stiles stepped into his space and kissed him with no sense of propriety and the Duke, to Lydia’s surprise, did not push him off but leaned into the kiss.

“Darling,” Stiles’ accent allowed him to purr it out, “This is Lydia, her sister is over there next to Aunt Abernathy.” He gestured with his head.

“Welcome to the family,” the Duke said, and bowed his head to her as if she was a princess, “Peter is lucky to have met you, how are you finding London?” Strangely the words looked almost painful to him, like he was struggling to speak comfortably.

“Your grace," Lydia said with a curtsey.

“There is no need of that," Stiles said, “soon you shall be calling him “Duke Sebastian Roderick Hale, at home we call him Derek," he kissed his husband again, “now we should go rescue poor Felicity before she finds herself engaged to Harris and they all run back to Portsmouth because we all know he can get lost in Regent’s Park.”

The Duke laughed, “it was the highlight of the summer, the horse had to lead him home. He borrows a horse from the stables for a light ride, he was gone nearly fourteen hours and the horse came home on it’s own with him following after. He was gone so long that we believed he had lost the horse in a game of ecartes and wanted to wait until dark to so no one,” he lowered his tone so it was a little more conspiratorial, “so Peter, would not berate him for it.”

“Harris despises Peter and the feeling is not quite mutual," the Duke agreed, “Peter thinks that Harris is a fool and a poseur, but we should rescue your sister, I do not know if Aunt Abernathy thinks she is the one to marry Peter or if she’ll have the girl knobbled over the back of the head and halfway to Gretna by the third course so Peter does not manage to marry before her dear Adrian.”

“What amount is her marriage price?” Stiles asked, “for her dear Adrian has no income of his own.”

“Then it's me he wants to marry, not Felicity, for I am the one with the shipyards to go to whomever I marry, Felicity gets three thousand pounds and one hundred a year.”

Stiles burst out laughing, “that wouldn't keep him in pocket squares,” he said, “come, let us rescue the dear child.”

 

Dinner was served before Peter entered, he had a small paper box in his hand which he put next to Lydia’s soup bowl before, looking at his aunt, kissing her on the temple, “sorry, that I am late, my dear," he took the seat next to her, “I wanted to pick you up a little something as an apology for what happened this afternoon.”

She opened the box, trying to look nonchalant, expecting perhaps some candies, and certainly not the brooch that was in the box. It was tablet shaped, with a small cabochon surrounded by flowers and leaves moulded from gold, and in the tablet were seven small precious stones in the colours of the rainbow. 

It was incredibly expensive and certainly far too much as an apology, he had not intended to walk in on Stiles painting her and could not have known that she might not be decorously covered, because appearing with one breast exposed was perfectly normal for paintings even if it was something that could not be done in high society. Even if she married Peter she would not be so haute ton as to wander around with her breasts exposed.

She told him so, and he made a coughing laugh.

“Marie Antoinette set fashion and she had her nipples pierced like they were her ears,” Stiles said, “she had her gowns cut low so she could show off whatever it was that she had hanging from her breasts that day, it was the height of fashion in the court of Versailles.” The Duke smirked around his wine glass.

“But London in winter is cold,” Felicity said quietly, surprising herself because this was not the sort of company where a girl was encouraged to have her own mind, she could be witty but even that was within reason. 

“It makes the piercing easier, your nipples sticking out like that," Stiles said, “although it does make them ache more.”

“Do you have your nipples pierced, your grace?” Felicity looked so sweet as she asked the question.

“Which of us do you mean, Miss Felicity?” The Duke, Derek, asked, “because it always upsets our dear tante’s digestion when we undress at the table.” 

The old lady, too far down the table to be part of their conversation, was nonetheless aware that they were talking about her as she noisily slurped her soup. “This is poor Green Turtle soup," she said, loud enough it was almost a shout so everyone heard what she said.

“That, dear tante,” Peter said, “is because it's oxtail.”

Aunt Abernathy made a loud noise that was meant to show her displeasure before she muttered something to Harris, whose basic expression seemed to be a sneer.

—

After dinner Aunt Abernathy retired with a bottle of port and it was expected that Harris would spend the rest of the evening at the club as it was barely ten of the clock, Lydia’s mother followed the old woman's example and went soon after once she realised that all was going to happen was a few games of ecartes and Felicity found a chair under a lamp and fetched her novel, tucking her legs up beneath her peach coloured skirts.

By midnight it was becoming clear that despite her cans of coffee she was growing tired and not being part of the conversation, which was mostly about the game of Boston that they were playing with an occasional comment about some one in fashion that neither sister knew. 

Semiramis had sprawled along the bench in front of the fire snoring away like a steam engine, which was mentioned a few times, but with the game coming to an end the duke, Derek, stood up, stretching then reaching down to finish his glass of port in a single swallow, “I am expected in the House tomorrow,” he said, “so I must retire soon, are you coming love?” he asked his mari.

“Certainly, husband,” Stiles said, “if you must leave my bed early we might as well spend as much time in it together as we can,” this was said with a leer that made the duke smile fondly, but he did jump a little when Stiles patted him on the ass.

Afterwards Peter tidied up the cards, putting them back into their box, before he picked up the two glasses of lemonade and urged Lydia to one of the couches by the window. He sat down and the way the couch was arranged to sit on the tight curve, although her ass was the couch she had to arrange her thighs over his with a slightly drunken laugh.

There had been a lot of wine over dinner. Felicity looked up from her book and saw the two of them together, checked that there was a footman at the door waiting for them to go to bed, and excused herself loudly claiming she would continue her book in bed.

“I," Peter started, and then running his hands along the outside of her wrists, “I was about to ask you to go for a ride with me tomorrow, but then I remembered that I have an appointment to play tennis tomorrow that I cannot easily break,” in the lamplight he looked almost innocent, which Lydia did not for a second believe, Peter had an agenda and she was part of it but that didn’t mean she knew what it was.

With the London social obligations the only time a person was really available was in the early to late afternoon, between lunch and tea. After tea it was expected that the person would be either preparing for the evening’s entertainment or doing their best to fill their evening despite not being invited to something that would take the night from perhaps eight of the clock till the following morning. The morning was to be slept away in the hopes of avoiding the eventual hangover, but considering that Peter had been drinking lavender lemonade all night his plans for tennis would be early enough to include at least some of the morning.

“I am getting the impression you wish to ask me something, but it is not something you wish to ask me where we can be overheard, but considering our present closeness and the shyness of your hands despite that, it is not something that would make me consider you overstepping your bounds.”

“My clever, beautiful, Lydia,” he said, “it is a matter of business but it can wait another day, but can I put my name in your diary that we might take the carriage around Regent’s park and talk?”

“I would like that," she said and was perhaps a little surprised to find that it was true.

He brought his hand up to cup around her face and then tugged her face in close to his own for a kiss, giving her the opportunity at every moment to pull back and reject the gesture, but she did not, and allowed him to kiss her. His other hand curled around her waist, pulling her in tighter to him and his kiss.


	17. Chapter 17

After a late and leisurely breakfast Stiles himself helped Lydia into a riding habit of crushed velvet and told Felicity that if she was accompanied properly that she could go shopping in town, or that Boyd would take her to a museum or gallery of her choice, or even the lending library but if there was a book she should simply buy it and make sure it was on Peter’s account and if Peter had a problem with it then he could take it up with Stiles. Boyd certainly knew most of the modistes in town and she certainly needed a full wardrobe before the season started in January, so if she wanted to spend the day in a coffee shop reading fashion magazines and making her decisions then Boyd could sit through it. He gave her some pin money, which seemed to Lydia to be far too much, but Stiles waved it off, and told Felicity to just bring the magazines back so her sister could read them, and left her in the care of Boyd, without bothering to introduce her to him.

When that was done Stiles bustled her into a carriage telling the driver to take them to Lord Somershall’s before they climbed in.

“Lord Somershall is confirmed bachelor,” Stiles said leaning back against the cushioned back of the carriage’s bench seat, “he has alpha friend with whom he lives and his estate is entailed to a rather pleasant cousin, Serene, and he is popular enough," she said, “we're visiting him today.”

“But why?” Lydia asked, she knew that Stiles was introducing her to society as Peter’s affianced, and he knew better than she did who to introduce her to, but she wanted to understand it, and she couldn't help but twist her fingers into the long curl that fell over her shoulder.

“Because on the eleventh of each month he holds a tournament of _tenis_ , which is by invite only, but we have no intention of playing, Somershall always invites Bruttenholme, who is an ass, but he is in the navy, and considering Peter's new interest in ships, and that he has, for the first time I’ve known him, accepted the invitation to play _tenis_ , he is there for reason, and Bruttenholme is likely reason.”

“Why are we going?” Lydia asked, “I am supposed to be arranging a new wardrobe and a hundred things for my coming out,” she said the words with a certain disdain. “I thought I was going to have to spend the day with my mother going from shop to shop.”

“You’re not coming out," Stiles said, “Felicity is coming out, you are breaking in, you do not have to try to catch husband, you already have one, so same rules do not apply. If I bring Felicity to ogle alphas at sport she’d be ruined.”

“We’re going to ogle alphas?” Lydia asked.

“Da," Stiles said with a grin, “ _tenis_ is no fun to watch, is no fun to play, I tried, it is not like _lotka_ , a ball hit me in the face, I looked like a pug for a week, with meat on my face, I looked like dinner for dogs, and hot and sweaty and ball comes at you from everywhere, let alphas be stupid and sweaty and hot, we watch.” From the pocket of his vest he pulled his watch, “and we shall be in time for fresh lemonade and cake.” He smacked his lips at the idea, clearly looking forward to it, as if it was not something mundane.

Lydia touched the new brooch on her gown, the one that Peter had given her the previous night, and kept her own counsel. She had grown up the daughter of a man who owned and managed a shipyard, she’d been watching alphas and betas toiling and sweating all of her life, and she had other things she could be doing instead.

—-

The house of Lord Somershall was just outside the popular parts of London, down a long drive, where it had a wide frontage with Romanesque colonades, a butler opened the door as the carriage pulled up and several footmen billowed out to help them down, “your grace,” the butlersaid as they walked up the stairs, “I was not informed we would be expecting you today, I’m sure his lordship will be delighted to learn of your arrival.” It was something of a passive comment about the fact they were not invited but regardless the butler would not send away a duchenne and his guest.

“Thank you, Armstrong,” Stiles said breezing past, “I am not too late for lemonade, am I?”

“No, you grace,” the butler said, walking along behind him, “everyone is gathered around the court, shall I fetch you blankets,” Stiles looked for a moment and then agreed.

The court was built in a cloister with the central area secluded off, with waist high walls, and then the area between was covered with nets. There were braziers placed here and there with cushioned chairs arranged around them, with society ladies and vidames sitting, bundled up in blankets, but in a position to both gossip and face the game that was going on in the central area.

There were alphas, for the most part in pants and shirt, with blankets around their shoulders preening and drinking brandy and clearly showing off for the people watching them. It looked like one of those images you saw in pamphlets saying that omega were keeping the most handsome alphas as sex slaves to slake their terrible desires.

Lydia had always found those pamphlets hilarious, and exactly like the ones where people complained about how alphas kept omega from marrying good god fearing betas.

She and Felicity had spent many hours laughing at that sort of nonsense and quivering in fear at those her father brought back from traders who still smuggled in French goods, he had been born in France, of poor omega and beta maidens threatened by the towering form of the fearsome beast, although it had been killed nearly 50 years before, but the stories were still delicious. And the pamphlets were determined the reasoning for the beast was either omega licentiousness or alphas preventing god fearing betas from marrying omega and saving them from said licentiousness. Or sometimes it was those terrible papists.

Lydia was not sure that she had ever met a papist but if they didn't turn into a giant wolf beast she would be hideously disappointed, especially if they were French.

The butler arranged them by a table with a brazier at their feet, waited until they were seated before bending to arrange the rug over her knees, the cloister was not cold, but sitting for a long time with it open to the winter air the way it was it would quickly become so and Lydia had always felt the cold keenly.

The quiet hum of conversation stopped when they came in but apart from a few sharp glances nothing was said where Stiles could hear it. One lady, a thin brunette with a collar of silver mink covering her throat and a pair of very pretty earfobs shared a smile like a knife as she spoke to her companion.

“That’s Jennifer Blake," Stiles answered after a quick look at her, “pah," he added, “she is a widow, her pension is not enough to keep her, should have spoiled that figure she is so proud of with baby or married younger man, if she wanted to be kept.” His entire tone with disdainful, “she wanted to be Peter’s mistress, Peter did not want her to be his mistress, she still points her tits at him. Pah,” he took a cup of steaming negus from a maid with a polite smile, “Peter not distracted by tits, or he would be marrying Felicity," Lydia couldn’t help but laugh, “and she has thin lady tits," he put the cup down on the table, and used his hands to make cupping gestures before his own chest, “leave baby hungry,” he finished.

Stiles, like Felicity, was very saucy but unlike Lydia’s younger sister, he didn't care what people thought of him if they overheard.

“This match ending," Stiles said, he had a tendency to drop words from his sentences, but it was always clear what he was saying, “maybe Peter next, if he not here,” and the more that he drank the more words that he dropped.

As far as Lydia could tell, although she would be the first to admit that she had no true idea of what the game entailed, but it seemed to involve two men in an area that was mostly closed off, and only open where there were nets for long stripes of the wall, the floor was tiled and painted with lines and there was a net strung across the room widthwise.

That net was the only thing that resembled lawn tennis for tennis, which was apparently a very distinct and different sport and not one only able to be played in the summer, although alphas were not notorious for feeling the cold the way that omega were. The two alphas playing were using small racquets, like were used in shuttlecock and battledore and striking a small ball between themselves by hitting it off the wall and floor. The game was fast, much faster than Lydia had expected, for lawn tennis was certainly not so swift, and now and again the ball would strike the net and it caused it, although it was tied down, to billow.

The two alphas were running back and forth, as someone else shouted out the score every time something happened, Lydia had no idea what it was that was achieved, or who had achieved it, and both were slick with sweat causing their shirts to stick to them, but one of the two that was playing, every time the action stopped for another serve, would take a moment to fix his hair, especially a curl on his forehead, which immediately fell into his eyes the instant that they restarted play.

“His thighs fine," Stiles said, “but not compare to Derek, he is fine alpha, he like alpha in painting,” he took a lusty swallow of his negus, now that Lydia had tasted it she found it did taste like lemonade, enough that if someone did not know that it was very alcoholic, they could get foxed very easily, unaware that it might be a problem.

“I like scratching my nails through hairs on thighs,” Stiles continued, “and chest, my husband very fine looking," he smacked his lips again, “so I look at him, very much, Peter is fine looking man too, not good as my Derek but still fine, at least you will not have to put cloth over his head if he comes to you when it is not dark out.”

“Your grace,” Lydia said, a little scandalised by the comment, people simply did not talk about these things.

“I like to have good time,” he said, “many good times in fact, in many different position,” he grinned at her, “my alpha also like good times, we have good times often, you will have alpha, then you will also have good times, and you won't blush like a maiden, you will tell about Peter’s thighs.”

“I can see why he calls you Mischief,” Lydia answered.

“I am adorable,” Stiles told her with a smirk as if it as an absolute and undeniable truth. “You wish you were as adorable as me,” he was grinning when the game ended and the alphas swung out through the hole after the net had been released, and another pair took their place.

Taking advantage of the lull in the entertainment the woman in the silver mink collar came over, leaving her blanket on the floor as if someone else didn’t need to pick it up. “Your grace," she said with a cleverly overstated curtsey, one that was just deep enough to be mocking but not deep enough that it was obviously so. She had a sharp face, with fine bones and dark eyes, most of her beauty, came from her hair and her long neck which was perfectly framed by the mink she wore. It matched the dress she wore, which was an dove grey colour that would have been more appropriate on an unmarried girl, but was not so pale that it would confuse someone that she was an unmarried maiden. The dress was pretty, and trimmed in a darker grey silk that sounded like waxed paper when it moved, the whole thing was trimmed in silver fur and pearls, making the peach tone of her skin more pronounced and obvious against her dark brown hair.

“Mrs Blake," Stiles said with a blink of his eyes that acknowledged her curtsey, “I was not expecting to see you here," he said and it was a total lie but Lydia did not think to call him on it, “but I should not be surprised, when Peter told us last night he would be here we decided we surprise him, he can claim kiss from his new bride as prize.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard about Peter being married,” she said, waving over a footman to bring her a chair, “you must, share all the gossip, no one thought that Peter would ever marry, he is such a fan of lightskirts after all,” everything about Stiles gave off a lot of comments that he was not speaking aloud.

“The twentieth of December," Lydia said, she had heard the date mentioned as the one for her wedding day, but couldn't remember at that moment if it was the one that was agreed on, it didn’t matter as long as someone remembered it from this meeting it would be her wedding day, “Mischief,” Lydia carefully used Peter’s name for Stiles to watch Jennifer's reaction. She looked like she had bitten into a lemon for a moment but then schooled her expression, “was an invitation scheduled for Mrs Blake, for if she is a friend of my dear P then she must be invited," Lydia was not a stupid person, but she could play the role of the ingenue without a thought in her head to perfection. “It shall be such a glorious day, he invited me to London for these last days before the ceremony because he could not bear that we be apart, it's so romantic.”

“Yes,” Mrs Blake said through tight lips, “romantic.”

“Were you hoping to get married again too?” Lydia put just enough emphasis on the word again to make her flinch, “there’s so many handsome alphas in London, I’m sure one of them will have enough money to keep you now that I’ve stolen my dear P away, is there another you have your eye on? perhaps we could invite him to my wedding as well.”

“You’re too kind, Miss ...” Mrs Blake left it open so that Lydia would fill in the blank.

“Is it too soon to introduce myself as Lady Hale?” She asked stiles with the most innocent look she could manage, “but Martin," she giggled, “for now.”

“Yes," Mrs Blake said it as if she had to force it through her teeth, “for now.”

“Oh look," Stiles said, reaching out with one hand to the corridor to the left of them, “here’s Peter now.”

Mrs Blake got out of her seat as if someone had put a snake down the back of her bodice, “your lordship," she said with a bow of the head, “I was just talking to his grace, and your young bride, she seems charming.”

Peter fell into the seat with an exhausted humph noise, “my Lydia," he said, “haven't you heard that I was smitten, I thought it was the talk of London.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mrs Blake simpered, and if Lydia had not been playing the role of the delightful idiot she would have rolled her eyes so roundly that would have clattered in their sockets. “But London gossip is mostly malcontents reshaping the truth to that which suits them better, I had hoped to learn the truth of it today, when I learned that you would be amongst the competitors in Lord Somershall's little games, I sent him word that I would be accepting his invitation just that I might speak to you to confirm it.”

“Consider it confirmed,” Peter said, and reached over and freed the cup of negus from Lydia’s hand, placing a kiss to the fingers after he had done so, and emptying it in a single swallow, “I’m sure that with your experience that you had a lot of advice to give to my lovely Lydia," he continued, I thought it was the delight and prerogative of married women to share their knowledge with the maidens of the ton.”

“My lord is too kind," she said and it was a practised response that she used instead of the words she actually wished to say. “But I shall not keep you a moment longer, Lord Somershall is making his rounds and it would be remiss of me not to thank him for arranging this get together.”

“Your grace," She performed another of the curtsey, not so mockingly low this time, “your lordship,” she bobbed her head at Peter, “Miss Martin, it has been a pleasure.” And grabbing her skirt so that it swirled in a most pleasing fashion she left although her gait looked, to Lydia at least, to be almost what would be called a stomp.

“So," Peter said raising one eyebrow, “care to tell me what the two of you are doing here?”


	18. Chapter 18

The winter gardens at Lord Somershall’s manors were lovely and backed into the river. The gardens had been arranged with statuary so that they were covered when the rhododendron was in bloom and the camellia hedges, and the paths were still wet with the morning's frost and the grass was cut close.

When Peter had led her to the gardens, after rearranging what would be his second match of the day, he had wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders over his great coat, ignoring his own ability to feel cold, but walked with his arm through hers.

“You did not explain to me why it was you came here today," Peter said, “although you are always a pleasant surprise.”

“I might have moved up the timeline of our wedding," she said, “I wasn't sure when it was and plucked a date out of the air, Mrs. Blake pushed me, and I despise women who define themselves by men and do their best to get better men to improve their self-worth. It brings out the worst in me.”

“Your worst is charming," he told her, “but I prefer you to be as intelligent as you are, and not playing the idiot, but watching her face as you did so was exquisite.” His body was hot where it was pressed against hers, and she couldn't help but lean up against him, as he guided her to a bench that overlooked the river. A few boats were taking advantage of the cold, skulling back and forth and tugging barges full of cargo. All of the pleasure boats that usually covered the water with rich people making the most of the water were wintered so the traffic was light. There was a boy climbing the rigging of the sail boat as capable as a monkey up a tree. Lydia couldn't help but watch him, she had grown up around men and ships, but it was something of an art, watching them climb. Although she knew so much about ships, having grown up on them, no one had never been allowed to climb the riggings, she had always wanted to. So it was with some envy she watched the boy.

“I do not think you want me to be as clever as I truly am,” she said.

“But I know all of your secrets, my dear," he said, “you are not so clever that I could not simply root them out.”

“All alphas think themselves so clever," she said, she could not quite keep the bitterness from her voice, “perhaps that is why we like to see them reduced to animals, running around after a ball.”

He laughed, she had expected him to be insulted but instead, he found it amusing. He liked her when she was wicked. “Darling, you know I could be reduced to an animal any time you like," he said with a grin that was distinctly canine.

“You talk a fine game, but when it comes to playing the field,” the metaphor had gotten away from her.

"I have played the field, often and well, are you jealous, my lovely,” he was smirking at her, sprawled against the back of the bench, legs spread out in front of him, an arm around her, she couldn't help but lean into the heat of him. “We discussed this, I remember, in another garden the night I proposed to you.”

“You suggest that I had a choice in the matter,” she corrected him.

“You have plenty of choices, Lydia, perhaps not marrying me, but it is the best outcome, the men who simpered after you were certainly unworthy of you.” He was looking at her so intently it felt like his eyes were made of fire, and his hand on her shoulder felt proprietary.

She rested her head against his arm because he was warm, or, at least, so she told herself, “you barely knew them to make such assumptions.”

“Mr. Carter wanted your inheritance and nothing more, after a rather unpleasant and short period of marriage I am quite sure that he intended to divorce you, take your wealth and leave you destitute, it is the sort of man that he is, and well, he was run off rather easily." Peter told her, “and Lieutenant Parrish would have bored you to stupefaction. What was it Felicity said, that he had the most terrible case of the ibbles, that he was burdened with terrible blandness, and was interminably reliable, sensible and dependable, the sort that would make you a very poor husband, and within no time at all you would be wishing him away to the Caribbean just for him to come back with something interesting to say, and you would make a poor Navy man's wife.”

“He was not that bad,” Lydia said, “he is a dear thing, just a little bland,” she turned her face up to him, and could see the glisten of saliva on his lips, she was not sure she had ever been so close to an alpha, although it was far too cold for anyone to question her purity after being alone with him, and they were to be married, it was not like he could ruin her now, “but I doubt I shall be bored when we are married," his smirk grew a little, “Stiles is adorable and I can see why the Duke is so fond of him.”

“You are almost as bad as he is,” Peter said and it was fond, “you shall make me old before my time.”

“Well, you do not have long to go, it shan’t be a hard task," the words escaped her before she realized how cruel it might be taken, but to her surprise, Peter just laughed.

“I thought it was the dream of every omega to marry an alpha in his dotage, secure in the knowledge they would be kept without having to keep one,” she smiled, he was charming.

“You want me to claim that you are not entering your dotage, but the truth is that I do not know how old you are, old enough to be my father, certainly, but my Father was hardly in his dotage," she paused, “but so old that a glass of warm port and a pipe in front of the fire and he would be asleep in his office with the cat on his lap.”

“I imagine that he was pinned to his chair by the cat and took sleep as an escape to the interminable boredom of being stuck with no alternative but to stare at his walls.”

She pursed her lips a little before she continued, “she is a lot of cat,” she told him.

“You are a lot of woman, any less of a cat would not suit you.”

The urge to accuse him of calling her fat just for the purpose of watching him try to back track amused her, but she decided against it. There was also a comment about a pussy that she resisted, “any less of a woman would bore you,” she said instead.

“Exactly, I wanted you so I put things in place to make sure that you would be mine, you would resist given the chance because you are far too much woman for men like Parrish or Carter,”

“Yet you never show me your affection, are you all talk, Lord Peter Hale, and perhaps desire to marry a girl so that you can be assured of her virginity so that she has no one to compare you to.”

Peter raised an eyebrow then brought his mouth across to hers and kissed her.

His breath was hot as was his hand where it cupped her cheek, and the air was cold, and she could feel the blanket slip away from her bodice so that the skin above her dress suddenly chilled and she became aware of her breasts, although his touch was virginal.

It was strange how his touch consumed her, and how his palm was hot and his fingertips cold against her cheek, and when he was done he pressed his forehead against hers as she made a noise of discontent at it being over. “Such a wanton little thing," he said, “I could tug up those skirts and touch you now, bring you off on my fingers here in front of the river and you’d let me,” he skimmed his finger tip over her bottom lip, “my pretty little virgin.”

“You like it," she answered.

“I like it very much,” he answered, “and to know I’m the spark that lit your fire, sweetheart, that I like very much.” He was almost purring, this dangerous, intricate man who was reduced to this by desire for her, and this dangerous, intricate man wanted to marry her. She had misunderstood when she had suggested that he ravish her and leave her be, instead of offering a way to slake that desire she had made him want her more.

She did not understand him, but for the first time, she thought she might want to. “For all this talk of fire between us I should take you inside, you are getting chilled and I would hate for our wedding to be postponed because you had caught something.”

“Is such care for my health that I will not embarrass you by being a bride with a puffy nose and swollen eyes, or because you do not wish to have to spend your wedding night alone?”

“I am sure that you will be a lovely bride, encrusted snot and all.”

She laughed against his mouth, “I’ll be sure to wear green," she said, “so no one can see the drips.”

“I thought white would be appropriate to hide all the tissues," it was nice, she realized, talking like that with him. He was right, both Carter and Parrish would have bored her, she would never have dreamed of teasing them like this, and being teased in turn, and Peter was right, she did desire him, when he touched her she felt alive. But he was right, she was cold.

She stood up, moving away from the heat of his arms and tugged the blanket tight about her, his great coat over her pelisse made it hard to adjust it comfortably. “We should get in," she said, “before you are too cold to play, and then Lord Somershall shall be so disappointed he won't attend our wedding.”

“Depending on whether or not I win depends on whether he gets invited," Peter said, “I do not like to parade my failures about, people might get the idea that I am fallible, I am clearly not, as I intend to marry my only weakness.”

She offered him her hand, she wore woolen gauntlets, finely made that left her fingertips free to the cold but kept her wrists and palms warm in the early December cold, before he stood up, in just pants and shirt, he took her hand, turned it in his own, his thumb rubbing against her pen calluses, before he tugged her fingers against his mouth and kissed them.

—-

“So," Stiles said, handing her a cup of hot lemonade that appeared to be sweetened with gin, he looked at her, urging her on with a gesture of the head. “Gone long time, got sketches done waiting,” he had a notebook on his knee and a pack of charcoal sticks, and he had tugged off the gauntlets he wore, and the tips of his fingers were black from where he had been working.

“That’s good," she said.

“You were alone,” he added.

She breathed in the steam from the lemonade, letting it warm her chest, “we were," she said.

“Did he see other tit?” he asked her.

“Stiles," she chided, “it was far too cold for that, and there were boats on the river, I don't think they earned a free eyeful,”

“Then Peter did,” he was fishing for information, she knew it.

“Peter and I agreed on the date of our wedding,” she said it primly, “we discussed Semiramis and Mrs. Blake.”

Stiles clearly did not believe her, at all, “alphas do not feel cold keenly like we do," he said, “and cold hands on hot cock can feel good.”

“Stiles!” she said, more scandalized this time at what he said.

“You be married in two weeks, why wait? Some alphas, their knot is the only part worth keeping, sometimes it is like their knot is part doing all talking,” she wanted to smile at that because it was funny and quite true but she was pretending to be mad at him. “Were you talking to Peter’s knot?”

“You are obsessed," she said, “he kissed me, nothing more.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “I shall tell you which room at home is Peter’s, you go to his bedroom, you wear sating night rail, let Peter make Omega of you, in morning we have no baby tea, you go to wedding and know things,”

“You are a bad influence," she said and took a mouthful of the lemonade, so she could say no more.

“Husband tells me that all time," he said, “Stiles, you are a bad influence, you make me do things. He lies, I make him do nothing, he does what he wants, it just is what I want, it is marriage.”


	19. Chapter 19

After watching Peter play tennis she did not see him again until the next day, he excused himself explaining he had made plans that he was going to the club and it was about business, but that he would much rather spend the evening with her, and that Theo would accompany the two of them back home, to make sure - Lydia was certain - they actually went there.  


After another dinner with Aunt Abernathy where she was snide and particularly unpleasant to Felicity especially, although the Duke was absent, having sent word he would eat at the club because he had been caught up in something to do with politics that Stiles just waved off the explanation for and would not be home until the early hours. This apparently was normal.

Felicity had spent the day with her mother shopping, and they had been polite and invited Aunt Abernathy to join them, recieved a harangue about the state of youth today and the licentious way that they dressed and asked if there was anything that she wished brought back, and left her to her day, and whatever it was she decided to do, probably gripe and pray, Stiles had said.

She then talked about the designs they had seen, and how she had bought a lovely new hat in the Gainsborough style for Natalie who had decided to take her meal in her room as she was very tired after the day’s shopping, it had been a busy few days and so her retiring early with a cream masque on her face was not a huge surprise to anyone. There was probably sherry involved that she wasn't mentioning.

It was easy to forget that she was a new widow and that, for all that she feigned frivolity, she was doing as much as she could to save her family, she was just unaware how much Lydia had put in place to make things easier on their mother, simply because she had not been great at it when her husband was alive, so once he was dead she could not function and grew tired quickly.

Or, as Felicity said, she was in love with the hot running water and new bath that was on the floor and was perhaps taking advantage of it, a new maid, one she did not share with her daughters because Peter had hired one just for her, and a huge wine cellar.

It was not the season yet, and Natalie didn't know anyone outside of the Hale family and so she had no one to socialise with, and she would perhaps feel more at home when she had people with whom to spend her time, but the idea of leaving her two daughters to London was unspeakable, especially as she had always wanted to be part of the London season.

After dinner Lydia played cards with Stiles. His fingers were still stained with paint and charcoal, for he had spent the rest of the day in his studio. He had shown her the sketches that he had done of the alphas which showed a certain fluidity of motion. The sketches were beautiful and somewhat erotic, despite the detail in the clothing that they wore, they seemed virile and potent in motion, but often the faces were either barely sketched in details, lines where features would later be placed after, but the lack of faces, or the flowing of fabric created something remarkable scribbled into his notebook to be turned into something later possibly, if he did not leave them as they were. He had mentioned something about selling sketches to a boarding house in Mayfair.

Stiles admitted that he was out of sorts for he could not guarantee that his husband would return this evening and he did not care to sleep alone. He showed no sign of shyness as he admitted that although he had a room of his own he barely used it for anything but storage for her liked to lie with his husband, and made no secret of the fact he enjoyed congress, and loved his husband, although it was something frowned upon by polite society. You might love a mistress or your children, your _mari_ was chosen as a contract or business deal.

“The Hales always were a little,” Stiles had paused looking for the word, “they are too rich and too powerful to care what others think of them, they are like _wilk_ , they make rules for them, not rules for other people, you will be Hale, then you will understand,” but Lydia wasn't sure she ever would.

She asked him about the source of Peter’s wealth, for he seemed excessively rich for simply having land to keep him, he was the brother of a Duchess, landed gentry certainly but he had the wealth of Croesus, judging by the counterpane and hangings on Lydia’s bed.

Stiles explained that he owned a mulberry farm and tea plantation in China, and part of what he did was cutting costs around the East India company whom he despised, but it meant that he was interested in boats for trade, which surprised Lydia for her family’s shipyards had worked primarily for the Navy, so their skills would do very little for his business. She could understand someone who earned most of his wealth in trade, especially trade by sea, wanting to own a shipyard to cut the cost of shipbuilding, and especially one known for it’s advancements, but they were specialised in battleships, not cargo.

She was still pondering this when she went to bed and let Bond, for she had argued that she wished to keep a maid that understood her and what she liked, undress her before climbing into her elaborate bed, and fell asleep with a duck down pillow stuffed between her knees.

Bond woke her not long after dawn, when the sky was still pink and the air outside the window felt fresh and still the way it often was early in the morning in winter, and ushered her into the bath with a cup of coffee to hold, like it was not the most decadent thing to move around a cup of strong coffee sweetened with cream and sugar whilst she was washed with a roaring fire in the grate and no worry about the water or the wood being wasteful, or how it would soon be time to pay and that there was enough money in the household allowance to afford more.

Years of frugality were not so easily washed away.

She questioned the addition of her churidar pants but was told that Lord Peter was quite firm about it, because they were going riding and he wanted her to be comfortable, for they were going outside London where they could enjoy riding, rather than formally posturing in Regent’s Park. It was paired with a grey velvet jacket and a lovely blouse with a cravatte pinned by a cameo brooch. Her hair was pulled up neatly under a hat and veil, and she was given a greatcoat to accompany it although it felt very masculine in it’s cut.

She felt very under dressed for a meeting with Peter, for she had always been elaborately dressed for their private meetings before.

She had had a quick breakfast of toasted white bread drizzled with honey but as she reached the carriage, for it was not appropriate for a lady to ride to where she planned to ride, or the liviery, she took the barouche in the summer and the carriage in the winter, which Finch was quite certain to explain to her. Finch understood that she was not sure what was expected of her as a Lady, although apparently her sister had taken to it like a duck to water. Felicity had said she intended to spend the day shopping again, as she would need plenty of dresses for the season, and Stiles had agreed to chaperone her, but the idea of the two of them together gave Lydia a feeling of unease she could not quite explain.

 

The estate where Peter had arranged to meet her was more than an hour's journey outside of London, so she took the opportunity to read through her mail, most of which could be answered in simple letters, but at least one of which needed a proper diagram explaining the problem. Lydia Martin might be getting married but Jeremiah Cole was not and he still needed to put food on his table - even if he wasn't real.

She wondered how long she could maintain the charade, or if she would have to give it up entirely.

They had given up the pretense of giving her a chaperone when she was going to meet Peter, treating her like they were already married, which allowed her the freedom to work through her mail.

The estate was beautiful, with large Elizabethan gardens that were laid out in labyrinths that were small enough to step over, but formed designs in the hedgerows and flower beds that sat at the main gate where she was given entry to the house and access to a large fire in the billiards room that was set up there. She was offered cups of hot negus with lemon, which she demurred politely, whilst she waited for Peter.

No one commented on what she wore, until Peter finally emerged from the house proper, and looked her up and down, “look at you," he enthused, “every time i think i understand your beauty you astound me," he was almost predatory in his tone, he moved in a lope like a tiger in the zoo. “I must kiss you,” and gathered her into his arms, before dipping his head to kiss her. He smelt strongly virile, of a hint of brandy in his hair, and a little bit of pipe smoke, not enough to suggest he himself had partaken but that someone had around him. He was in his shirt and vest and she liked how small and precious she felt when he wrapped his arms around her.

He had kissed her before, but never like this, like he was starving and she was a meal he wanted to savour. When he pulled back she made a comment, “you said we were going riding, I wonder now if that was a euphemism.”

Everything about him was wolfish, Stiles had used the right word, they were wolves pretending to be men and she was about to be consumed.

The very idea of it struck her as erotic, that idea that he would consume her, every part of her, muscle and bone and skin and thought and soul and make it part of him forever, and there, turned into him, as he licked her blood from his fingertips so as not to waste a drop of her. She could not deny the overwhelming visceral nature of it, but it was not something she wanted, more like a momentary thrill of desire she had because she saw him as a wolf.

It was followed by the thought that she read far too many pamphlets about the beast of Gevaudan.

“You tempt me," he said, running his palm down the length of her spine, against the ridges and bones of her corset and the lacing there. She felt almost naked before him. “I shall have to make it a husbandly rule that you wear pants as often as you can, if there is no one to complain, then you must wear pants, I find i have something of a predilection.”

“That you have a taste for something immoral," she said, “does not surprise me.” She pressed up against him, the height difference between them never more obvious than when they were like this, he stood a whole head and neck taller than her. She liked it because it made her feel sheltered.

“I do not see what is immoral about it, the only problem I see is when you urinate, you can hardly just squat over a grate like you can in skirts,” he was clearly enjoying the conversation.

“You know an awful lot about wearing skirts," she couldn't help the mischief in her voice, “is there something I should know about the beautiful gowns that you buy me?”

“I was a beautiful youth,” he said with a quirked eyebrow, “with the world at my feet, money, with education and despicable friends. I’ll have you know that I was beautiful, the wig might still be around in the house.”

She laughed, because she could not help but laugh, he looked vulpine and mischievous and she wanted him, she was coming to terms with desire, because she had never expected to desire her husband. But she desired Peter.

“I shall have to take your word for it," she said, “much as I shall have to take your pants, this double fall,” she ran the tips of her fingers up the front of his pants, light enough that he could feel it but with not enough strength that he might get ant gratification from it, “it is so flattering.”

“To think I brought you here to give you a gift, and you torment me so," he did not look like he was offended at all, “come, my dear, I have something to show you.”

If she had been Stiles or Felicity she knew what the answer to that would be, but instead she just tilted her head letting him fill the word in for her.

—-

Lydia was not really surprised that the gift was a horse, a fine riding mare with brand new liviery and a bow tied into her mane, but she knew so little about horseflesh she could have been given a nag and as long as the coat was shiny and the eyes were clear, for she knew that much from years of hiring horses at the liviery stables.

He went to help her into the saddle with his hands on her hips but she showed she did not need the help, and without being in a skirt and forced to ride side saddle she did not need a step to help her either, and it just made him laugh when she did so.

When she was settled he took his own seat upon his gelding.

“How comfortable are you on horseback?” he asked her.

“I am fair," she told him.

His grin was infectious she found, as she flared out the great -coat behind her so it was no longer in her way, trapped as it had been under her. “Do you see that building there, through the trees?” he asked and she admitted she did, it was a small folly built like a temple with a domed roof and pillars, it was a few miles away but it was visible. “We have a cold lunch waiting for us, and a fire has been set in the grate, so it will be warm, how we get there is up to you.”

Lydia grinned, unpinning her hat and her hair so it fell loose down her back before she moved her horse into a gallop with a whoop.


	20. Chapter 20

By the time that they reached the folly the winter rain that had been promised was starting to break in fine needles of what felt like ice and the sweat of her exertion made the rain feel much colder than it was, so she swung down from her horse, tied it at the small hovel that was there for the horses, and pushed open the door.

The sudden heat made the places that the air had turned cold started to sting, but regardless she went straight for the fire, holding out her hands to warm them through. She loved riding, and before her father’s death he had insisted that they take exercise on horseback at least twice a week, but after he had died there had been so much to do, and so many bills to pay that she had been unable and she had missed it. She had made promises to herself that after Felicity was well married she could take it up again.

And Peter had given her a horse, one that could be stabled at the house in London, and taken her out of the city that she might ride without restriction or care, and it had been wonderful. She was still laughing when Peter came in behind her and closed the door.

She should have complained, the idea of being alone with an alpha, in what was clearly a nest for illicit meetings, but she felt alive and free and she was finger combing her hair back so it was mostly free of tangles, for there were few pleasures as freeing as letting her hair fly free in the wind as she rode, when Peter poured the champagne into little ceramic cups and walked across to her.

“You look like a nymph," he said, “wild and free, and...” the words failed him, she took the cup from him, “Madame, you are a goddess, and I am,” he stopped, “words escape me.”

Lydia smiled around the cup as she raised it's lip to her own. She enjoyed seeing him struck silent by her, it made her feel powerful and vibrant and alive in a way she never had before. Then, with the cup drained, she put it down and pushed the great coat from her shoulders, then her jacket, then brought her fingers to the buttons of her vest, before removing it as well, so she stood before him in boots, pants, and blouse, unwittingly recreating how she had appeared to him that morning weeks before.

He could see the swell of her breasts, pushed up by the corset, through the fabric of her shirt, attention drawn to them by her cravat.

“You tempt me, severely, madam, I am trying hard to wait until your wedding night that you might have the first time that you deserve, spread out on a bed so you have to worry about nothing but your own pleasure, but I am severely considering taking those few steps between us and breaking the promise that I made to myself.”

Lydia licked the taste of champagne from her lips, then unpinned her cravat, pulling it away to show the line of her throat, watching the way he clearly hungered. “I don't’ want to wait," she told him, taking one of the chairs by the fire, perched on the edge. “When you proposed marriage I offered, and like the gentleman that I know that you are not, you refused, will you refuse me a second time, Peter?” She used his name like a bludgeon and she knew it.

She hungered and although she was academically aware of what she was hungering for but she had never had any pleasure that she had not taken by her own hand, tucked away with her own body privately - she had shared a bed with her sister - and she wanted to know what it was like to have someone else's hands upon her.

He groaned and pulled off his own great coat, letting it drop to the floor in a heap, before taking the steps across to her, his champagne cup shattering on the brick floor, to kiss her.

She let him push her back into the velvet padding of the chair, and for the first time that day she resented her pants because it meant he could not simply pull up her skirts to reach her sex which felt exposed despite her pants, and a little swollen.

His kiss was making it hard for her to think, and her collar made it hard to breathe like she needed to take in more air than it allowed her to, but it had not been a problem before. He surrounded her and dwarfed her and was suffocating her and she never wanted it to end.

“Off," she muttered, pulling at the fabric of his shirt, tugging it from the waistband of his trousers so she could touch skin.

“My darling little wanton,” he murmured, trailing his kisses along her cheek to her ear, which he sucked into his mouth, tugging on the pearl stud she wore with his teeth. It sent a thrill down her spine, and she could feel his hardness pressing against the fall of his pants, against her corseted stomach.

His skin felt hot and like suede against her palms, and she could see the dark line of hair vanishing into his pants, “I want," she said, trying to get his shirt up over his head, touch his skin and melt into his touch all at the same time.

His mouth trailed down her throat, making it feel exposed and hot and like all the air had been sucked from the folly, and she jumped when the wood in the fireplace popped from salt in the wood.

It gave her the excuse to step back and try to collect her breath, with her hands flat on his chest, and she was glad to see that he was as clearly as disturbed as she. He was taking great sucking breaths through his nose.

“I,” she started but after that, she found there were no words, she was in a situation she had never shared before and it was clear that he was letting her set the pace but he wanted to touch her.

“We should save something for the marriage bed," he said, “it is barely days away, it shall not be so torturous.”

“I want you to touch me,” She said firmly, and pulled her blouse over her head to reveal her shift and corset, with a pull of the string the gauzy muslin fell away, to reveal the swell of her breasts against the corset, “but we can certainly save _something_ ," she emphasised the word, “for the marriage bed.”

“You shall drive me to Bedlam," he said, and pulled his shirt over his own head, possibly to restrain himself from touching her. “But what glorious madness it shall be,” he licked his lips, and Lydia made the decision then to unhook the top of her corset so that, this time at least, both breasts were on display.

Lydia was a virgin, but she was not unaware of the desires of alphas, many of them had stared hungrily at her tits, or managed to brush against them in such a way that they dragged against the fabric there. Her breasts were not as large as those of Felicity but she had more than a pleasant handful, and she was so pale that they looked milky, highlighting the blue veins around the aureole, and her pale pink nipples.

He grunted with effort, a single breath for every hook she undid until with a creak she removed the corset completely, letting it fall to the floor, her shift falling around her waist as she did so, and then she covered her breasts with her arms.

“Do you not like what you see?” she asked, she had ducked her chin into her neck with a little embarrassment for she had never been this naked in front of anyone that was not her maid or her sister.

“I fear I like it too much," he said, he matched her nudity, they were both wearing boots and pants, “the image of you in just pants is overwhelming the part of my brain that is trying to remain a gentleman.”

As he spoke she removed her hands from her breasts to show them to him and raised her head to look at him, and, to her surprise, it was her face he was looking at.

It made her feel powerful. So she stepped forward, her boots making determined noises on the wooden floors, gone quiet as she moved to the carpet that he stood on.

She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry and the faint rose taste of her rouge reminded her of the attention she paid to her beauty so that alphas would find her beautiful - which was, she was told, the role of betas in society. She was capable of bearing children and everything she was taught was how that was her purpose and her ambition would be to find the best alpha to share those children with who would protect both her and any children that she had.

Circumstances had ruled that out for her, or so she had thought, but then Peter had made the decision for her, and that too aroused her.

She took his hand. It was rough, in comparison to hers, with calluses from riding and other sports, but he kept his nails neatly trimmed and clean and they were slightly cold, the winter still there and biting outside, she ran her thumb over his palm before she pulled it to her skin, so that his hand, cold as it was, cupped her breast. With her hand holding his in place, she reached out and took his other hand putting it on her waist as if they were dancing, and he was silent.

She felt almost godlike and she loved it.

—-

When Lydia returned to the London town, she immediately went to her room to dress for tea, for she was expected and it was getting late, being nearly five of the clock. She had enjoyed her day riding with Peter and he had packed her back into the carriage explaining he would be in Portsmouth for a few days on very important business but he would certainly be back for the twentieth and that she was to act as if they were already married.

Her mother quickly followed her up the stairs and entered the room, ushering out the maid and closing the door behind her. “Did you fuck him?”

The obscenity out of her mother’s mouth surprised her more than the actual meaning of the word.

“No, Mother, it might disappoint you to learn that I am still a virgin,” she said unpinning her hair, “we had a jolly day riding, he took me to the estate of a friend where we could ride without having to worry about who would see us, so we could gallop and race and jump walls, then we had a lunch at that estate with his friend, Lord Cholmondeley,” that was the only part of her story that was not true, they had dined alone in the folly, but afterwards had ridden back to the house and had bracing cups of tea by the fire in the great entrance with him and Lydia had found him to be as pleasant as his house, although she had told him so much more eloquently, and that she looked forward to seeing him at the wedding.

“Lydia,” Natalie scolded, “you went without a chaperone, anything could have happened until that ring is on your finger he can cast you aside.”

Lydia turned to look at her mother over her shoulder, “Mother, I am aware that you hoped Lord Peter would deflower me that you could make sure that he would not cast me aside, it would secure futures for both Felicity and myself, did you want me to fuck him.”

Natalie frowned, turning her head with such anger that the curls she had spent the early afternoon putting into place with the aid of her maid and heated tongs bounced, one falling free of its pin to frame her face, “I will not stay to be so abused, I do not know, daughter, what I have done to you that you feel vindicated in attacking me so.”

“You accused me of spreading my legs to secure a marriage with a man I have nothing but respect for,” that was a lie but her mother didn't need to know that, she desired Peter, she even liked him, but she didn't respect him. “You treat me like a whore when I am marrying despite that I never wished to, you assume that because I have spent my day with him that I was unchaperoned, which when we were not on horseback we were,” she did not have to tell her mother about how she had let Peter touch her in the folly, “now if you don't mind I had intended to bathe before joining you for tea so that I could tell you about how I happily spent my day, I think I shall remain in my room for tea now, for in this moment I do not care to be in your presence.”

“And where is Lord Peter?” Natalie had never been one to let an argument lie when she had not been the one to succeed.

“He has returned to Portsmouth,” Lydia flipped open one of the fans on the dressing table, admiring the painting on the fabric before she closed it. “He has business there for the next two days, and assures me he will return in time for our wedding.” She opened one of the pots of cream that were used for her face, taking a sniff and deliberately not looking at her mother. “I have to spend the next few days shopping, I have nothing to wear to such an auspicious occasion, people never thought that he would marry, and I imagine that there will be gawkers, I shall have to be perfectly dressed if the gossip is to be anything but a surprise.” She knew that the promise of shopping, especially shopping for the _bon tonne_ would distract her mother, “Peter thinks that Mr Brummel himself might attend, although apparently, the Prince is in Brighton this time of year.” And just like that, her mother was less worried about Lydia’s morality and more interested in fabric and lace and the other fripperies of fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is theo, it's been a while


	21. Chapter 21

After putting Lydia in the carriage back to London Peter took a fresh horse to travel towards Portsmouth arriving at his preferred post house in time for supper, which he ate, ravenous from the day’s activities, and a hot bath to soothe the muscles used by the riding.

He could still smell her on her skin, although he knew it was mostly imagined for he had changed three horses during the ride and was sure that it covered any other smell, he rode through the next day arriving in Portsmouth as it started to darken.

Theo was waiting for him in the hotel, with a basket of cold foods and immediately sent for a jug of hot water so he could get the worst of the horse stink from himself before he dressed more appropriately. “We have a meeting, my lord," Theo said, he had never been one to overly fuss, “and I can fill you in on what I have learned whilst you were in London. Did you marry the chit yet?” he finished.

“Theodore," Peter said, he rarely used the full form of his name, “you will treat that “chit” as if she was me, with all the repercussions.”

Theo had a smile like a knife edge, “I call you many things much worse, my lord, and mostly you just toast me with your brandy and agree.”

“Then treat her as if she was the Virgin Mary herself,” Peter corrected him, “and make no move towards the sister either, she's a dear thing and you would ruin her.”

Theo, for a single moment, looked affronted and then decided that Peter was correct and shrugged. “So are they omega, the sisters?”

“You know that I as a gentleman do not kiss and tell tales,” Peter told him.

Theo laughed aloud at that before he sobered and answered, “there must be a first time for everything.”

—-

Instead of taking Peter to the club, as Peter expected, Theo directed the carriage to take Peter to a warehouse in a rather rough part of town, where men holding beer bottles stood in clusters outside, “we have a meeting," Theo said, “but if you want to gamble, keep it small, not because I think you’ll lose but because I’m not sure that it won't mean they can't cover the debts and will think it best to cosh the pair of us over the heads and leave us for dead in a ditch.”

It was an underground fighting ring, the sort that every town had, and here and there were men with notepads and heavies surrounding them collecting money and bets on the fighters who circled around each other like they were at a ball, except they were more honest in their intentions.

Theo pulled him across to a man who was selling bottles of beer from a cart and pouring gin into cups the customers had brought themselves for a ha’penny. “We can wait here,” he said.

“Who are we waiting on?” Peter asked.

“Him,” Theo gestured to the ring. It was a large circle where the viewing area was raised benches to stand on and wooden fencing lashed together with rope, that could, at a moment’s notice, be torn down and moved. Unlike the cock or boar pits, these fights were frowned upon by the local constabulary because they didn't pay the requisite bribes.

The two fighters seemed strangely mismatched, one of them was a mountain of a man with a long bright ginger beard contrasting with his dark hair, his arms and back covered in blue ink designs, and he wore a sailor’s pants and rather rudimentary boots, most sailors worked barefoot as it allowed them better grip on the decks, so wearing boots was an impediment to him, but clearly necessary on the packed dirt floor, even though kicking was as allowed as gripping, wrestling and even biting.

The other man was smaller, with a firm build, but his hair and beard were shaved close to his head, but given a few day's growth, and it was only in comparison to his opponent that he looked unimpressive. There was some tattooing on the back of his arms, and a smear of blood across his bare chest.

The two were trading blows, testing each other’s weaknesses but as Peter watched he saw a certain skill to the smaller man, he bounced on his toes, rolling through the punches so it looked like he was struck harder than he was, and drawing out the fight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shilling, “put this on the smaller one to win," he told Theo, “I have an intuition.”

Theo said nothing but took the shilling and brought it over to one of the bookmakers, handed over the coin and took the chit. “Halwyn," one of the goons shouted down into the ring, “someone put money on you, gonna make it worth his while?”

Halwyn, the smaller fighter, rolled his shoulders and in a few quick moves wrapped his arms about his opponent, lifted him over his head and slammed him hard into the floor, knocking the breath and sense from him, then he took a step away from the unconscious man and spat, “that do for ye?” he asked, and then left the ring, pulling a coat over his bare shoulders before taking a small purse from one of the other bookmakers.

He walked back to Peter side by side with Theo, who had collected his winnings and remembered to tip the bookmaker to prevent further problems in regards to the win, it was the kind of area where losses would be covered by a rock in a leather purse swung hard against the head.

Halwyn was a handsome man, but there was a wildness in the way that he moved, and something of Germany, Peter thought, in his features, “My Lord, this is Halwyn, he is who we came here to meet.”

“I wasn't aware that I needed to hire a guard,” Peter said as they left the warehouse, others were trying to get in because the fights were nowhere near done for the night, even if they were done with them.

Halwyn had a dark and dirty laugh that promised secrets, “don't think I’d work for ye, yer lordship," he said, scratching his head supporting Peter’s thought that he had cut his hair away because of an infestation of lice, “might interfere with the employment I already have like," he shoved his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat, a stained and dirty wool thing that looked like it had been fine at some point in its life, but now looked as if it had served in the army as a groundsheet with most of the buttons missing.

“You are already gainfully employed?” Peter asked because Halwyn certainly did not look like he would be, not even well enough arraigned to look as if he belonged in the navy or on a private merchant ship.

“Aye, yer lordship," he said, and then as they climbed into the carriage his entire manner and speech changed, he straightened his spine and crossed his legs, and all the mannerisms vanished from his speech. “I work for the Bow Street Runners and young Raeken has informed me that the two of us have a common goal, there has been a number of murders in association with shipbuilders, more specifically the engineers. As far as I can tell it seems to have to do with the mysterious ship the Semiramis, I have discovered through my own investigations that the Martin shipyard keeps copies of all of their designs and have arranged for us to check them. Had you not arrived today I would have gone with Raeken.”

Peter was impressed and told him so.

“Different talents for the same job,” Halwyn answered, “I met Raeken after learning we shared an agent, a young man by the name of Donetti who is a thug for hire.”

“We hired him for the Carter incident,” Theo qualified.

“He was hired as look out for a beat down that would not have affected you, but of the husband of the secretary of Whittemore and works in his office, she brought it to my employers who knew that I was working on a very similar case and that it might be a joint case.”

“Let me guess,” Peter drawled, “she was being blackmailed for information on Jeremiah Cole, information that she did not have.”

“Precisely, someone is paying a lot of money through intermediaries for information in regards to a reclusive engineer, and obviously the information Mr Cole has is worth the crown intervening if I’m correct in my guess as to who you work for. I wondered if it was because you were going to marry the Martin girl and inherit the shipyards but if it was that simple then you would not be here, you would be either in London awaiting the ceremony or in Venice appreciating the joys of being newly wed.”

“Are you married, sir?” Peter asked him.

For a moment Halwyn's features softened, and then grew harder than before. “I was. She died.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Peter said and surprised himself in that he meant it, he discovered that the idea of losing Lydia made his bile rise and his heart seem to seize in his chest, and that surprised him for he had never been the sort of person who felt such things. He had thought that those emotions were created entirely to sell novels to impressionable young girls, that he enjoyed them as a guilty pleasure was irrelevant - he hadn't thought that people actually felt those things

He had once had a mistress of whom he was quite fond but in comparison to how he felt about Lydia it was negligible, and he finally understood how his nephew had married Mischief in such haste because the idea that someone might marry her or hurt her before he could secure her future with him terrified him, and it was a fear he had no preparation for.

Halwyn simply nodded his head to acknowledge what Peter had said, which Peter was grateful for because he hadn’t known how they could continue.

“Miss Martin arranged for her father to build this place before he died, once they weren’t mortgaged to the hilt they bought the building and hired Mr Hewitt to archive all of the designs for their ships. It is not common knowledge that the repository even exists, but I struck lucky in that Mr Hewitt, who I knew worked for the Martins, is enamoured of a young man in my employ,” Theo explained, “a local burglar, the one who originally hit the Martin house, on commission, was more than willing to feed me information on the people who wanted the house burglary, and when I first met with Mr Hewitt he was with me, and Mr Hewitt was smitten, he then accidentally revealed the existence of the archive.”

Peter couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed because he thought he had understood her but she had outwitted him clearly. Everyone was scrambling around for the plans for the Semiramis which had not been kept in the main factory, so they had made assaults on the Martin townhouse, but they had been here.

Had he asked her she might have told him about the archive but he had not thought to ask her, caught up in the role he knew she played of being a silly girl.

The building seemed to be just a simple shop front, although they entered through the back, and climbed the stairs where young Mr Hewitt gave them entry. The room was fitted with gas lamps, a large worktable with a few stools around it dominated the room and there were cabinets such as his nephew used to show off his collections of semi precious stones in long thin drawers stacked on top of each other until they were as tall as he was.

Mr Hewitt was a young black man in a well tailored but inexpensive suit who wore a small sparkling gem in each ear, he was a beta but seemed to stutter and lose his composure when Theo addressed him, asking him about something Peter did not know.

“You want the designs for the Semiramis, right?" Mr Hewitt said finally, and from a pocket of his vest took out a ring of keys and opened one of the drawers, pulling out a scroll of paper, after searching through them for labels written on the ribbons that held them closed.

He undid the ribbon and spread it out across the table. “It was an early piece," he said, although the copy had been made by a competent hand the design had been heavily annotated and changes made, some in different colors. “This was the first design made by Mr Cole," Mr Hewitt said, “and he has spent the last five years revising and altering the design in an attempt to make it work. He theorised that if he could create a ship small enough with a flat bottom it could skim and create greater speeds, using balsa, but the ship was too light to support either a mast or water wheel, and with a water wheel it meant that there was a need for a steam engine which added more weight even without fuel. Mr Cole had a theory that instead of a water wheel that pulls the ship along it would have a smaller wheel that went under the boat and pushed it along, he called this the propellor, but it caused two large issues that he could not overcome.”

“The propeller screw and the fuel injection unit,” Theo said, he had spent the previous weeks searching for the designs for the two things.

“Yes, the last theory had a vial of whale oil that dripped into the engine’s fire to boil the water needed to turn the screw, but he could not find a way to regulate the drips and the few experiments ended up in an explosion although it was on a much smaller scale than would be necessary to power the boat, and he couldn't figure out how to alter the direction of the steam power, attempts to do so failed miserably. The ship is an intellectual exercise, if someone could make it work it could easily triple the speed of a clipper, and would be invaluable for the war effort, it could run commands from high command to the front in Spain in hours instead of days.”

“Could Mr Cole fix the designs?” Theo asked.

Mr Hewitt looked at the paper, “he’s been trying on and off to fix those problems for five years and failed, I have no idea why anyone would want these plans, it's an intellectual exercise, and if he did manage to complete them it would mean a huge change for ship building because the propellor could mean the end of sail entirely, if he could get it to work.”

“Could that be what the French are so eager to get their hands on?” Halwyn asked.

“This is the copy with the annotations,” Mr Hewitt said, “which is the most up to date version of the plans, if they have stolen an earlier draft they might not know that it should be in balsa as opposed to iron, or that it is designed now not to have any provision for sail regardless. If someone has stolen an older version it will fail much more and I can understand why Mr Cole is so private, because if the French want him to complete this and have gone to the extent of breaking into the Martin house to find the plans then they will not hesitate to take him.” Hewitt seemed to realize what he was saying and that it upset the three men in the room, “it just makes sense, you know, if they are trying to create a boat and the plans don’t work then surely the need the creator of those plans to mend them.”


	22. Chapter 22

Rotten Row was the most fabulous shopping area of London, it was where the modistes kept their shops, in tucked away alleys, and tea houses and inns were at every corner dealing with the rich on their shopping or daily excesses. The day that Lydia and her sister had chosen for their shopping excursion was the eleventh of December, just nine days before her wedding and she was hoping that at least one of the modistes would have something in stock that could be altered to fit her. She was sure that someone would make the effort for a society wedding.

Although she had been in London for nearly a week and a half this was the first time she was getting to see a modiste, a woman called Madame Walker, who had been recommended to her by the Duchenne, Stiles, as being particularly skilled, although the man who ran the shop, a beta immigrant called Brunski, was desperately unpleasant.

Brunski's major role in the shop was to open the door to prospective customers and usher them in towards the girls who served them lemonade or cordial beside the fire whilst waiting for the ladies who would take their measurements, and show them swatches and take notes about their designs before their covetted, if they were high enough ranked or rich enough to acquire one.

Each of the girls were dressed in beautifully made beta dresses in linen and wool that were the sort of gowns that Lydia would have for day dresses in Portsmouth before she met Peter, but now she be buying at least one of the fine satin omega gowns that hung from wooden hooks, two for each mantua.

Through the back room, huddled around a fire and laughing under a lamp and mirrors used to make the light brighter and easier for them to work from, there were girls in simpler, but equally well made, dresses sewing, needles flashing through the expensive gowns that they made.

Both Lydia and Felicity had sat with Bond picking out the stitches of gowns from the rag merchant so they could be tacked to fit before the final stitches were put in place. The two sisters had had only eight gowns between them, but other things from the rag merchant that their mother did not raise too much fuss for them to wear in the house, things like Lydia’s churidar pants that Peter was so fond of.

Despite the light snow fall outside the shop was lovely and warm, bolts of fabric lined the walls, fine silks and satins rolled on wooden dowels and slotted into specially made racks away from the windows at the front near the door so the sunlight did not fade them.

Lydia was guided to a couch by Brunski who recognised the servant who had accompanied them as their chaperone, and addressed them as the Misses Martin, although the modiste herself, a quiet woman with a manner that saw her slightly bent over with her head down, insisted on calling Lydia Lady Hale. “Not for a week yet," Lydia said, the idea of it still kind of new to her.

Lady Hale was a woman whose portrait hung in the sitting room, a stern dark haired woman with pale eyes and a fine alpha gown, with a rosette at her shoulder, Lydia had not, despite Miss Finch's insistence on referring to her by her future title, made the distinction in her own head, although her mother was delighted that her daughter was going to marry into nobility and was enjoying that Felicity had been addressed several time as Vidama.

They had not brought Natalie with them for this shopping trip.

“I am not quite sure what is expected of me,” Lydia said putting her tea down on the low table in front of the couch, “but I am expected to dress well for my wedding breakfast, but I am unsure how much of the haute ton will attend, although I am told many will for the joint pleasure of making sure my Lord does marry, and the others to see the Duke that they might socialise with a duke, but they do not understand that he is little given to society simply because his undertakings in politics keep him so busy.”

Felicity looked across at her sister, surprised she had said so much. “Lord Peter is busy in Portsmouth at the moment," she said, “but he has given us access to his accounts, and the instruction is to make sure that Lydia looks like she deserves to be his wife, that she is as much a paragon of fashion as he himself, as my sister has said most of society will attend, whether invited or not, so the dress will very much be seen, and being simple girls from the coast we have no idea what is in at the moment, and Lord Peter is so eager to marry my sister that we cannot commission a gown in the usual way, there is just over a week until the ceremony, and although she might wear a simple day dress for that, the following celebrations that the Duchenne has arranged,” that was an exaggeration, Stiles had looked up from his sketchbook and told Finch to take care of it, “that she must look like his lady.”

Meredith stood up without a word and went to the back room and came back with a heavy silk gown draped over her arm, “I intended this for Mrs Marchant,” she said, “but she has not paid and I do not deliver until the credit is paid, my girls must make a living,” Meredith had a small, mousy voice and manner, and as she said this she didn't raise her eyes to look at them.

“Let us see how it looks,” Lydia was helped from the couch and taken into a backroom where she was undressed by the modiste herself, which even in Portsmouth had been a rather flattering prospect, and who made displeased noises at her corset and shift, and helped into the fine gown.

It was too large, perhaps three inches too long in the skirt, but easily hemmed to fit, and the back pleats would have to be rearranged, but quickly pinned into place to recreate the fit even with the lacing up the back that was almost hidden. She then called for a roll of guipure lace and tucked it in around the low neckline, which sat off the shoulders in the French fashion, and showed off the shoulders of Lydia’s corset, to fall around the hard edge and soften the line against her skin, a brooch was picked up from a display with a mutter how this would do for now, and then dark brown ribband was pinned to the sleeves. The fabric was a heavy jacquard and from a drawer she pulled a premade blazon of gold and bronze embroidery that she pinned to form a stomacher, which the dress had been lacking.

“Look at yourself,” Meredith told her and Lydia turned, the dress poorly fitted and altered with pins and pinned on decorations but she was surprised how lovely it made her look, the wide skirts of an omega sat over the two underskirts she was wearing to hide the lines of her legs, but the heavy fabric fell between them, and it made her look desirable. “What do you think?”

“I think it will be perfect," Lydia said with a smile, “it is much better than I dared hope,” Meredith made a noise, a moue of discontent as if anything less would be an insult, moving and rearranging the pleats at the back.

“You’ll need a new corset," she said, “that one is unsuitable.”

“Can your girls do it, or do you have a recommendation?" Meredith looked a little startled.

“I shall draw up a bill of sale,” she said, “we shall include a corset for you, if you can remove the dress I shall have Jeanette take your measurements. Will your sister also be requiring a gown?”

“She has spent the last week shopping where I have not had the time," Lydia answered, “but we can certainly ask, if you have something you think will suit her as well as this gown suits me then we shall be happy to give you as much custom as you can take.”

Meredith made a sound that might have been a sigh, “my girls will be thankful for your custom," she said finally, “the Lords Hale have always paid their debts, the dress will be available once it is paid for.”

They left the store and were walking arm in arm along the street, pointing out people walking past as well as things in the store that seemed ludicrous to them, like bonnets that were so embellished that they would weigh as much as a basket of the fruit that they mocked.

It was not unusual for young girls, followed by a chaperone, to continue in this fashion so apart from a few admiring glances from alphas, sizing them up as whites for the season which would open in January. Some of the omega and beta were wearing beautiful day dresses, others were dressed for visiting the modistes in items that were designed to be both fashionable but easy to remove, and there was a pair of red leather ankle boots that had Lydia pull her sister into the store and Bond opening her purse with a sigh as Lydia sat on the stool to have her foot measured for a last that the store could make her shoes on demand. There had been no intent to buy shoes because measuring would take so long.

As such it was nearing nightfall when they left the store to order a hansom to take them back to the Hale address. The girl in the store had tried to gain them one, but they decided it would be fine if they walked along the street until they found one, for they certainly did not have enough money on them, even Bond only had a few promissory notes of certainly no more than a pound, to make it worth robbing them, in the most fashionable part of London with half of the alphas of London milling about.

“Miss Martin,” the man said, causing Lydia to turn, “Miss Felicity,” when they turned to look it was Mr Harris, Peter's cousin with whom they spent very little time because he was often at his club. “What felicitous luck," he clearly felt amused at his own wit, “I was just leaving after shopping, would you like a lift back.”

Considering that they had their chaperone they agreed, and through out the drive managed a rather banal conversation but that seemed to achieve nothing.

After tea, which was served by both Lydia's mother and Tante Abernathy, who long exposure to did not make more pleasant, but Stiles, despite being in the house, did not attend, Lydia retired to her room with the excuse that she was tired and wished to take the time to answer her correspondance, which had been forwarded on from Portsmouth for her by Peter’s man, Mr Raeken. He had not even opened them, which was good for she knew that they were really set for Mr Cole so he might solve some of their issues with engineering.

With a bright lamp, a good pencil and a straight edge she could certainly do it, she would not lack for paper in the house of a Duke, especially when the Duchenne was an artist.

She considered it a pleasant way to spend the hours between tea and supper, for she enjoyed her time spent at her drafting table, and was glad that Peter knew her secret that she could continue it after marriage.

It was his knowledge that she was Mr Cole that he had used to blackmail her, so he would not mind if she spent some of her time at such things. He had said that he was fascinated with her mind, so why would he complain about her using it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay but with teen wolf ending i've been run off my feet with meta, like really  
> and then planning my nano which will NOT be a bodice ripper, but something darker, so be warned, you might not wanna if you just like the fluff, but i hope to get a lot more done in october, ideally finishing this  
> i'm getting there, sometihng big is about to happen which will speed it up quite a lot


	23. Chapter 23

With her wedding getting closer Lydia took to shopping, she found herself pausing over expensive ribands and bonnets, and then remembering she had Peter’s line of credit and she was not to worry, so if she wanted a thing she was just to purchase it. She bought herself a fine lapdesk, fretting and biting her nails at the cost, whilst Felicity pulled her hand down, fretting at the ruin of her nail beds.

She was sure that the new abigal, who had arrived two days previously, and only spoke French, would also give her a scolding about them, whilst she brushed perfumed toilet waters through her hair before she dressed it for dinner so that it smelled sweetly of night jasmine.

Felicity guided them into a tea room she told them was very popular and fashionable and was only across the street from the tavern where Beau Brummel himself caroused, not that Lydia cared, and said so, for she was about to be a married woman, when she said as well.

“You do not seem best pleased about that, sister,” Felicity said, fussing with the fan that hung from her wrist where it lay on the table, “is it that you do not want to marry Hale? He might not admit it but he is smitten with you.”

“Peter is in love with himself,” Lydia corrected, “he is fascinated with me, I have earned his attention by being a puzzle that he cannot solve, and it is the puzzle that holds his attention, not I.” She looked down at the fine dress she wore, the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, made of fine Kashmiri wool and patterned with the seed of life motif, even the fine shoes she was wearing. “I think he decided that he wished to be married and I was the lucky unfortunate that charmed him at the right time.” She noticed the look on Felicity’s face, “don’t worry about it, Flick, I never wished to be married, but now I know both you and Mama will have a future assured, Flick, you're having a London season, you shall have the pick of the finest bachelors in all of England, and some from Scotland as well.”

“I would rather my sister be happy,” Felicity said, playing with the spoon on her saucer.

“Such sentimentality has neve become us, sister,” Lydia said with a little jut of her head that made her ringlets bounce and the little bells she wore at her ears ring pleasingly, “we are the daughters of a shipbuilder, we are made as sternly and well as any of Papa’s schooners.”

“Lydi," Felicity said using her pet name for her sister, just as Lydia called her Flick which had been what Lydia had called her when she was a small child and could not manage to say Felicity, “we are not ships, if you made us stand in dry dock and flooded the floor we would drown, not float.”

Lydia coughed out a laugh, almost unwillingly, as she often did at her sister’s wit, especially when she was trying to appear stern or wise. “Peter won't make me unhappy," she said, “sometimes with him I am very happy indeed.” She bit at her lips, “Mama asked if I had bedded him, and I have not, she was much more crass in her asking, but I would be lying if I said I had not considered it. I have heard that he is a fine cocksman, and if he is as skilled with his tongue as he is with his fingers,” she smiled to herself in memory of the time they had spent in the lodge a few days before.

“Lydia!” Felicity exclaimed, “and to think I had thought you a fine paragon of virtue.” She was the perfect image of fake judgement with her hand on the skin of her breast, fingers splayed to best show the cameo she wore on a riband, but Lydia knew her sister far too well to believe it even for a moment. “To think you didn't tell me, why I am horrified. I am yet to even be kissed.”

“You haven't come out yet," Lydia said, “by this time next year, sister, you shall be tired of alphas and their kisses. I recieved three proposals on a single night, and I am told that you are prettier than I.”

“Mrs Abernathy is half blind and likes to pinch,” Felicity griped about it, “she believes I am nowhere near accomplished enough to marry her nephew, and will not listen that it is you that he wishes to marry, but until the wedding I do not think she will accept that. She had me play some new music from Germany that she had heard was popular on the pianoforte and then complained that although my playing was tolerable that the song was far too loud for her, and of course scandalous, and that involved a long lecture about modern music, the Germans and then the pianoforte which is of course far inferior to the harpsichord that she learned to play.”

“You must excuse me a moment, sister,” Lydia said, standing up, “I have to use the necessary,” she said, “I shall be right back.”

She swept her hands down the front of her heavy skirt which was in a lovely sage green jacquard, as she pushed back her chair with a heavy screech, and the heavy stoneware pot of tea rattled as she did so, as Felicity reached forward to steady her cup. The tea was drinkable but nowhere near as fine as that drank in the Hale house, or nowhere near as foul as that her mother had served to guests.

 

As she was leaving the necessary Lydia didn't see the beta woman approach her from behind, but she did feel the point of the knife in her back. “You are going to walk out of here with me without making a fuss, you are going to tell you sister that I am a friend of Peter and I am taking you to a modiste but that you forgot about our meeting.” She had a smoky sort of voice, and although everything about her was beta, when Lydia snatched a glance she was wearing beta fashion, including a rather bland bonnet that she had not removed when she entered the establishment.

“Who are you?” Lydia asked.

The woman pushed forward with the knife, making sure that Lydia knew it was there, "I ask the questions." She said.

Lydia had been lying to her sister as long as she had been alive, there had been many reasons, not wanting to spend time with her, or reassuring her that her playing was good when it sounded like she was having a paroxysm on the pianoforte, or that her watercolors were better than they were, or that she was dressed well before she learned what was acceptable. It was expected between sisters, even those that enjoyed each other’s company and were as close as Lydia and Felicity.

She could lie to her sister, but when she looked at their chaperone, Bond, she wondered if the male alphas in the teahouse might be able to rescue her. “Several of the men in this building work for me, you will not know which, but if you raise any fuss I shall have your sister’s throat slit, you are valuable to me, she is not.”

Lydia swallowed before she stepped forward out of the small corrdior that led to the necessary, “Felicity," she said as she reached the table, “you remember Margaret, don't you, she helped with the charity work in Portsmouth, I met her as I was visiting the necessary, she has been gushing about this modiste I just have to visit, and with the wedding so close, you don't mind, do you, Flick?” She sounded so sincere as she asked that the beta behind her seemed impressed for she pulled the knifepoint back just a fraction, “I can dash off, get measured and be back for tea and catch up with Margaret about what we have missed, I shall have some gossip, is there anything you wish for me to collect for you, perhaps some new lace, or ribands?”

Felicity agreed, she couldn't really do otherwise, Lydia had pushed her argument so firmly, she looked confused but otherwise offered no argument.

—-

Inside the carriage, as soon as it was moving, the beta removed her bonnet to reveal that she was an alpha, with high pointed ears and a handsome face, a dimpled nose and blonde hair that she removed the pins from so it fell in a cascade around her face. After she had scratched her nails through her scalp a few times she reached into her pelisse and pulled out a flask. “Drink that.”  
She said in a firm tone.

Lydia attempted to demur, politely, which surprised even her.

“Drink it or I will make you.” It was clear that the alpha wanted some form of violence and making sure that Lydia emptied the flask was one of it.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the one taking you where I want you to go,” the alpha answered, “now drink up.”

Lydia emptied the flask. She could taste the laudanum in it, and by the time it was empty she already felt light headed.

 

The first time she woke up she thought she could smell the sea, and she was laid out on a bed and when she tried to get up another cup was put against her lip and she was pushed back under.

 

The third time they let her wake, she was spread out on a bed, and she had been stripped to her shift, and there was bright winter sunshine coming through a white wall to pool on a wooden floor. There was a fire in the grate and a small cabinet with a jug of water and a glass sat upon it.

Her head ached, her mouth was furred, and her hands felt ungainly as she struggled to pour water into the glass that she could drink. She swallowed it down as fast as she could, ignorant of what poured out of the sides of her mouth and down her neck, soaking her chemise, it was easily the best tasting water that she had ever had, as her thirst increased the value of the water to her.

It was only when she had emptied the jug she started to look for other things in the room. The door was barred, there was some bare furniture other than the bed, a chair with a tapestry seat sat in front of the fire, wooden shutters on the window that were painted white to match the furniture and a tapestry of a hunting scene on the whitewashed walls, large grey granite blocks surrounded the doors and windows. It and the view outside told her what she had begun to suspect - she was in France.

Whoever it was who had taken her, and she did not yet know why, had taken her to France and so whatever it was it involved the war.

“You're awake,” the beta that opened the door was a beta, the curves of her ears on full display. She was a pretty black woman in a dark red dress with a shawl crossed over her bosom to tie at the back of her waist, “Vidama, Monsieur le Vicomte D’Argent wishes to see you.”


	24. Chapter 24

The black beta helped Lydia to dress in an old fashioned grey gown that stunk of lavender and cedar suggesting that it had been in the trunk for some time. The dress was pretty enough but had not been fashionable for an omega since La Terreur, and it was likely that was when it had been stored away. She was allowed her own boots and as an afterthought a woolen shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, crossed over the stomacher of her gown, and tied at the small of her waist to keep her warm. Although the previous winter had seen the Thames freeze over this one was warmer, but the shawl was welcomed.

A small shaggy dog joined her in the corridor as she was led to the main hall where a wooden table was covered in foods, there was roast quail and fried sweetbreads, soft white rolls and little bowls of butter and salt, there was even some dried fruit in cups of brandy, and salted lemons. A grayling was on a platters surrounded by the vegetables it was roasted with and despite herself Lydia’s mouth watered. There was several carafes of wine and a large piece of roast pork was being pulled from the spit, suggesting that the small dog that had found her and was now lurking at her heels was the spit dog released from his duties for the day.

“Come, vidama,” there was a man stood beside the table, “eat, you must be hungry after your journey.” He was a man of advanced years with the sort of figure that suggested that he had maintained a trim form and had worked hard to do so but had ultimately been undone by time to give him a small paunch, his hair was a ring of white around a bald pate and his teeth seemed perhaps a little too big for his mouth. Yet Lydia could not have said what it was about this man that gave him an air of violence and danger.

She had spent her life around men who were and could be considered dangerous and this gentleman the Vicomte she supposed, shared their mien.

When he pulled out the chair for her to sit, she did so, and the small dog, seeing an opportunity, jumped up to her lap where it nestled under her hand looking for affection. The Vicomte frowned but said nothing to the dog’s presumption, and Lydia took note of it. She had noticed that the Vicomte and his servants were speaking English, clearly in deference to her, she could have told them it was unnecessary for she spoke French well, many of those who worked near the shipyards did, but it was an advantage and she was certain that she needed to hoard any that she could come across, even if that was simply indulging the spit dog in its search for affection.

“Thank you, my lord, might I enquire what it is that saw you seek me out?” She might have been in a position of weakness but she suspected that the Vicomte had nothing to lose in answering her questions.

“I must thank you for being so gracious as to accept our humble hospitality,” from the mantle he took down a pewter plate, wiped it down with a linen cloth that was clearly for that purpose and placed it before her, “eat, you must be starved, we can converse as you do," he poured wine into her cup, before offering her cheeses and breads, slices of the roast pork, even the grayling. He made no signs to limit the amount on her plate with mentions about what was accepted for a maiden, he just put food in front of her, and then when he was content that every dish was within reach he sat down with his back to the fire.

“Thank you, my lord, I am hungry," she said, and lowered her eyes in what looked like a coquetteish gesture but was intended to take in the details of the room and not meet his gaze which unsettled her. “But I must wonder why of all the maidens in England you have chosen me, for I am certain it is not because of my sex.”

“My daughter had said that you had a tart mouth," he said with a rather predatory grin, “and I must admit my wife’s gown most becomes you," Lydia paused with her fork almost at her mouth, “but it is not my intent, you see your betrothed and I are both working towards the same goal, and he has achieved more in two months what my daughter has not in two years,” he gestured that she continue to eat, “you, my dear, are merely an incentive for him to work faster, for unlike your dear betrothed," he said the word with a measure of vitriol that was more likely aimed at Peter than it was at the concept of marriage, “I am under something of a deadline.”

“I may venture the guess that it is unlikely that I shall be returned in time for my wedding, which was planned for the twentieth, so that the celebrations will also cover Christmastide,” she made her best guess at being empty headed, it was a role she had played for both of her seasons.

“I am afraid it is unlikely, you see your betrothed will have to solve the riddle that has baffled us both these past months, then deliver that plan to a place that is neutral so that both he and my daughter might walk away unscathed, for I expect nothing less from both of them than to severely mistrust the other, then you shall be delivered safely back to London, or one of the other holdings of the crown, ideally without harm, because I am certain, Vidama,” he almost purred it out, “that you won't do anything that shall make such harm necessary.”

She suddenly found it hard to swallow, as if he had his hand around her throat, “it would certainly not be in my interest to, and besides I do not know where it is in England that you have transported me.” She knew perfectly well that she was in France but she was clinging to every advantage that she had.

“Good girl,” he said, “be sure to tell Monroe when it is that you are done with the meal and she shall show you around the house, as you said, it’s not worth you trying to escape, this manor is quite isolated and you do not know where it is we are. As long as you mind your manners then I see no reason not to return you in the same condition that we found you, well, as long as your betrothed keeps good time, I would have to have to cut a finger from your lovely hands to remind him that some of us are on a deadline even if he, himself, is not.”

Lydia was pleased he did not stay to eat with her.

—-

Monroe, the black servant woman in the red dress, led her back to her room, and once she was content that the fire had plenty of wood beside it, that the window was latched and that there was water in the jug on the cabinet beside the bed, someone had taken the chamber pot and replaced it with a new one with a strip of fabric draped across it, as it would be when it was used, she went to leave.

“This house is not arraigned for a Vidama,” she said, “we have not had one since the Lady died in childbed with Lady Katherine, you must excuse the rudeness of your lodgings.”

“They are very fine,” Lydia lied, “thank you.”

“You are our guest," there was something in the way that Monroe said guest that Lydia was sure that she had meant prisoner, “at least until your affianced completes the task that he has been given. You are free to walk the manor,” she continued, “but we do ask that you are properly chaperoned if you wish to walk the grounds, there are books," she gestured with one arm towards a shelf with three leather bound books upon it, “and everything that you need for embroidery has been made available to you,” there was a small work box on the table that had been placed underneath the window. “If there is anything else you must let me know, I am under instructions to make you as comfortable as I can.”

“Then you could let me, properly chaperoned of course,”

“of course," Monroe parroted,

“Back to London and my fiance, I am certain I could persuade him to be more diligent in whatever it is he searches out.”

Monroe laughed. She genuinely laughed as if it was the funniest thing that she had ever heard. “You are a guest of the Vicomte, until the Vicomte has what he wants you will remain his guest, here at his pleasure, we had thought you a beta, how surprised he was when I told him the truth, that your betrothed had found and Omega in the rough, one unspoiled by the decadence of modern society, why he considered keeping you for himself, but his work for the Emperor is certainly more important, and as he pointed out, you are certainly spoiled by Hale.” Monroe smiled as she spoke, it was a cruel smile certainly with little of mirth to it, “I had suggested that pain might see him work quicker, but the Vicomte believed that if we did not keep Hale's good faith that he would betray us sooner, after all, would he want you back if we plucked out one of your eyes?”

Lydia didn’t have an answer for that, but she was surprised that when Monroe left the room she did not turn the key in the lock.


	25. Chapter 25

Theo had expected that the news of Lydia’s kidnapping might not have gone well for him, he had thought that telling his master would result in violence, perhaps the destruction of his rooms at the hotel, but he had forgotten that the explosions of temper were generally reserved for small problems, but when he truly lost his temper Peter Hale went cold.

If he was terrifying in his fiery rages he was devastating in his cold machinations.

Felicity didn't have much information, she was puffy eyed from crying when she arrived back in Portsmouth, devastated that not only had her sister been taken, but she had been taken when she was with Felicity and everyone kept asking her questions, there was Halwyn who was patient and kind and pressed rataffia into her hands and told her to take her time, that anything she remembered would be useful.

She had spoken of a beta with blonde hair, a lovely woman if her features were perhaps a bit blunt. She described her dress and how Lydia had suggested that they knew her but clearly Lydia was lying to protect Felicity and that brought on another flood of tears, for Lydia might have been nineteen and worldly wise but she had worked hard to protect her sister from the same disenchantment with humanity.

Theo could not have said what part of him decided that he would become Miss Felicity's protector but he was the one who, after Halwyn had questioned her, asked if she wished some tea, or perhaps something to eat. He brought her a shawl and insisted she move next to the fire. As a beta it was illegal for him to marry an omega, assuming that Lord Peter was right and she was one, for it was hard to tell with a grown woman if her ears were not distinct without an autopsy.

Theo was not a good person, he did not consider himself a good person. He was a liar, a cheat, a cardsharp, a thief and occasional thug depending on what his employer needed and right now Peter was searching for Mr Cole with a passion he had lacked before. He was certain that Lydia had been taken by the French in order to blackmail him into revealing what he had learned. Theo was unsure if that was true but he had learned not to question Peter when he was in an icy temper long before.

It was Halwyn who took it upon himself to remind Theo what would happen if he even considered compromising her, reminding Theo that not only was she under the protection of Lord Peter, but the Duke, the Duchenne certainly, who had accompanied Felicity but had taken a constitutional along the sea walls whilst she was being questioned, and that she was barely seventeen years old and might not be as worldly as it was often common to think such girls.

Halwyn was a large man, he was handsome in a blunter fashion than Theo, he stood as many as five inches taller than Theo did, and although he lacked the bulk he seemed much more dangerous. His features were finer but his eyes were narrow and sharp, and Peter had made the suggestion that Halwyn leave his current employment with the Bow Street Runners and work for Peter himself.

Theo was unsure if he had an accomplice in his work yet.

When the Duchenne returned, wind lashed and black hair slicked back from his face by an impatient hand after the rain overwhelmed it, he wore his husband’s great coat, too short in the calf and too broad at the shoulders for him, and had a wooden sketchbox stuffed under one arm. “The weather," he declared, “is foul,” and that was that, as he tried to both warm himself and dry off in front of the fire in the parlour. Theo, who generally liked the Duchenne, wondered if he was trying to distract Felicity.

Peter came down wearing his wool greatcoat over his shirt, and a locket that looked like it might be Lydia’s over his head. Unusually he had used his hair oil to sweep his hair back from his face instead of how he usually wore it swept to his side, and he wore his hunting boots, and instead of his white breeches he wore black ones.

This was Peter dressed for violence, because everything he wore, with the exception of the locket, could easily be discarded, or laundered. “Mischief," he said, “are you okay to sit with Felicity?”

The Duchenne gave him a look as if he had asked if water was wet, “we have a dinner appointment,” he said, “with a family friend, something simple to distract ourselves, are you sure you won't accompany us, Peter?”

“I have an appoinment of my own," Peter said, “I shall see you for breakfast, if you are prepared to share your morning with me," he took a deep breath, “I might be a little out of sorts.”

The Duchenne looked like he was considering comforting Peter, but was reminded that Peter was not the sort of person who cared for people offering comfort as it reminded him of his weakness, and Peter had never cared for being weak, and certainly not for being perceived so, even by family.

—-

Theo accompanied Peter to the underground fighting pit, where he had Theo enquire what was necessary in order for him to fight, and then had him guard his coat.

It was something unexpected. Theo had, in the years he had served Peter, seen him fight before but the lower classes of Portsmouth had not. Peter had been a soldier and had enjoyed fighting with the infantrymen of his company and had spent many hours boxing amongst his fellows, he had learned to take a punch and the bets made against him, for he did not look like the sort of gentleman who brawled for fun, but he did so because he was good at it.

Peter always liked things he was good at.

He shucked off his great coat and vaulted into the ring, “a sovereign for the first man to beat me," he said, and the man who joined him in the ring must have stood six foot five and was as broad as he was tall. He had been fighting earlier in the evening, for they started as soon as it got dark and often ran the fights until morning.

The ground was hard packed mud covered in loose straw surrounded by wooden panels behind which the people gathered to watch, drink and fight. One enterprising gentleman was selling dried strips of what he called lamb at a penny a packet. Men who made book were calling out odds and they were all offering high odds for Peter beating the existing champion, a man that they called Ennis.

Theo put a shilling on Peter, at twenty to one odds Peter would have wanted a shilling on himself too, but Theo didn't really want to encourage him. He could use the money to buy brandy for the people Peter beat on to calm his own bad temper at being unable to help Lydia at present.

It was clear that Peter wanted to act but although he was convinced that the French were responsible and he had tried to hurry his investigations there was nothing he could do, and so the fighting ring of Portsmouth would be the ones to take his temper.

Theo almost felt sorry for them.

Almost.

He was sure he could make at least a hundred pounds off these people by the time Peter was done.

—-

It was dawn before Peter was ready to leave the ring, he had a few places that would turn into bruises in the next few days, and one side of his chin was beautifully swollen, he had spat blood onto the packed earth at the blow, one ear was a little bloody and his knuckles looked like minced beef, but he had fought nearly fifteen male betas and alphas, and two of them had been carried out. He had fought with certain restrictions upon himself, in that none of the blows that he delivered would cost them a body part, and delivered none to the throat, although he would normally not bother with such niceties.

He vaulted out of the ring like nothing had happened and accepted the kerchief from Theo, wiping his hands free of blood, mucus and other viscera. "I thought you had decided to stop it with the pit fights.”

“What can I say," Peter said, as he wiped his hands clean, “I’m a creature of habit.”

“Your darling will not like you if you lose your pretty face,” Theo said, offering him the flask of brandy, because Peter would certainly not drink the rotgut that places such as this offered, but he might be talked into fried fish from one of the vendors by the harbour with their fresh days catch.

Peter took a deep breath, “we shall get her back,” the way he said it was more of a promise than anything else. He would recover his lady and he would make those who took her suffer.

“We certainly shall,” Theo said with a grin, “I have five pounds that you will make it to the altar, and I do not care to lose any more than you do.”

Peter’s grin was vulpine when he turned, “I do like to beat the odds.”

He had started the fight beating the odds, by the end of the night he was two to one to win, because the bookmakers could not go any lower and still offer bets, his opponents however, their odds just kept going up.

—

Despite the Martin house being available Peter had thought that it was inappropriate to stay in the house, at least until it was legal that he had a right to the house, he was keeping his rooms in the hotel, so Theo had no qualms about ordering a bath, the way he might if it had been a house that they were keeping staff in. After all it might not seem like a huge deal to order a bath at five in the morning, and Peter certainly needed one if he was to be able to move at all when he woke, but servants remembered and petty grievances would add up and then it was only a matter of time before the simple things became almost impossible, tea would become undrinkable, although none of the servants knew why of course, but in a hotel the same rules did not apply. The staff at a hotel were often those who could not get employment in a house where their jobs were secured for life.

Theo ordered a hot bath to be brought to Peter’s private rooms, the suite was shared with the Duchenne and Felicity, and the Duchenne might be loud and abrasive but he would have bundled the girl into his own bed, secure in the knowledge that she would be taken care of that way, and she would be treated as if she was a Duchenne herself.

Peter called him Mischief, and it was a name that suited him well, but he wouldn’t let anyone, even Peter, hurt her on his watch. Later he would take her to let her show him the delights of Portsmouth, the best places to shop and eat, he would marvel at her house and treat her in every way like a princess so that she might be distracted from worry about her sister.

Theo could not achieve the same for Peter.


	26. Chapter 26

It took barely two days, as snow started to fall on the small French chateau where she was held hostage and the surrounding cedar and hazelnut trees dusting them like it look like a sugar caster had been shaken by some almighty hand, and the wind turned sharp, for Lydia to be overwhelmed by boredom.

She had tried to spend the days fruitfully, taking the opportunity to rest, but she had discovered that she had two books on the shelf, one of which was a translation from latin to french on the herbs of the region, complete with notes, and most of which was missing, and the other was a series of letters, in English, about the state of witchcraft in the Americas a hundred years before, between a father and son and it had been amusing the first time, but after the second day, when she had finished the book, she was faced with the terrible fact that even if Peter solved the mystery immediately it would take several days for the news to reach this place.

She asked Monroe if there was anything that she could help with, and Monroe smiled, it was a cold smile and then tried her best to find tasks that Lydia might find odious. As Lydia knew that the alternative was going back to her room and reading about the Salem witches, again, so she just accepted the tasks.

Monroe insisted that Lydia wear gloves, for the vicomte did not want her to ruin the skin of her hands, which were not nearly as soft and fine as he thought them, which made the tasks slightly harder, but she was happy to sit in the kitchen, maintaining the fiction that she could not speak French as she sat on a stool beside the fire plucking freshly killed grouse for hanging.

She grabbed the feathers, twisted and dropped them into the sack sat with it's mouth wide open at her feet, and when she was done, she would sweep the feathers and down from her skirts into the sack, and pick up the next bird. The kitchen workers were gossips, and were quite happy to have someone to do the boring task of plucking the birds, throwing in a goose that Lydia had to stick under her armpit like it was a bagpipe to work with, and the spit dog, which Lydia had named Spit in her head, but insisted on calling Nineveh when Monroe deigned to ask her, lying at her feet like he was protecting her from the rest of the house, even to the point of side eying the vicomte’s twin mastiffs when they lumbered into the kitchen before collaping with a soft thump in front of the fire, for the cooks to move them with their feet saying “tu êtes dans la façon dont vous paresseux forfaitaire,” as if their mouths were not large enough to crush a human skull between their teeth.

Once that was finished there were no tasks that Lydia could complete still wearing her gloves, which only Monroe insisted on, she knew if she took a little of the old butter and rubbed it into her hands they would soften them no matter how hard the work, and she was a woman used to a little labour, she had spent her life in her father's shipyards and had often carried pots of nails or oil to the workers, the baskets rubbing at her palms until they blistered and her mother would tell Bond to rub salve in them after they were washed with salt water and a rough cloth so that Lydia would learn that she was a gentleman's daughter and a gentleman’s daughter did not labour like a common doxy.

Lydia had never been a woman who could sit idly, and her father teaching her the workings of a ship on paper allowed her to maintain her hands, to her mother’s delight, and occupy her mind. She had learned the design because the alternative was reading and rereading her mother’s novels, the salacious French pamphlets and mending whilst Felicity played the pianoforte.

When Lydia asked Monroe for pen and paper Monroe laughed at her, saying there was no need for her to write letters as they would not be sent, when Lydia’s intent was to translate the herbalism book from French to English for something to do.

When Monroe presented her with a pitchfork and a ladder Lydia balked, “unless you have breeches for me to wear I cannot help," she said firmly, “for if I try to climb the ladder to clear the roofspace of the stables I shall stumble and likely fall, for stepping on my skirt is almost certain, and there are gaps in the slats and I am sure that the local labourers will gather to look up in the hopes that they might see up my skirts. I am happy to do the work,” she said, “but I will need breeches.”

The next morning Monroe had found her a pair of rough spun wool breeches, obviously taken from one of the labourers and clearly far too large for Lydia, they looked like they had been fitted on a beer key, but which she lashed around her waist with a length of bright ribbon, although she was still wearing the boots she had worn when she was taken in London, leaving an exposed part of white stockinged calf, but she took the pitchfork and climbed the ladder without complaint. 

No one had cleaned out this roofspace area for many years, there was hay that had been placed on top of older hay and towards the bottom were slime, rat droppings and fragments of what had been stalks of something. Wearing her gloves she began to shift the muck by the forkful without complaint, putting it into sacks which one of the other labourers carried down the ladder.

“Ah," she jumped as a rat skittered over her foot and she whirled around, and she heard the laughter of Monroe who had clearly hoped that this would happen. It was apparent to anyone who saw her that she despised Lydia for no reason that Lydia could see, perhaps it was simply because the vicomte insisted on eating with her each night, most of which was him gloating over his cooks, who were exceptional, his hunting abilities, which were good, or how much better he was than Peter Hale at everything, which Lydia did not want to interact with him over.

The second time that the rat appeared Lydia threw the pitchfork with its long thin tines at the creature and managed to spear it, but because of the way that the pitchfork was designed as the tines pushed through it they tore the rat in half, and because Monroe had been so unpleasant and mocking for the previous days before she had considered what she was doing Lydia had flipped the rat carcass over the edge of the attic towards Monroe who screamed like a scalded cat as it struck her.

Lydia knew that she would suffer for it later, but the laughter of the other labourers who were clearing out the empty horse stalls felt good.

Her salt bath that night was cold, and Monroe pulled her hair more than brushed it, but the meal that she shared with the vicomte managed to taste like victory.

The next day Monroe had nothing for Lydia to do, but nevertheless she pulled on her pants, patted her thigh for Spit to follow her, and began to wander the young manor to find something with which to fill her time. If she went further from the house than she could easily be seen one of the labourers or servants would appear to escort her back. 

Bored out of any of her remaining mind she had left, in a house that had no intention of dressing for Christmas, and she wasn't even sure if it had been and gone, but only that she had missed her wedding, she found designs spread out over the banquet table, with ink and pen. 

They were basic designs, nothing more than a sloop, with no real changes, but there were changes that she could make, she took up the yard stick with it’s measurements and started to do the math required, a few degrees shaved from the keel would massively increase the speed, but it might put more stress on the mast with the sails rigged. She got up and pulled a stool over to work at the problem.

A cup of wine was slapped down on the table, but she didn’t look up to see who had put it there, only put a few places of scrap paper to slop up the spill, and asked for a rag to wipe the nib of her pen as it was spotting.

A lamp joined the cup at some point as Lydia worked out the math and by the time she sat back, interlacing her fingers and raising her hands up behind her head and cracked her back with a sigh of relief and then twisting both left and right, so that she did not stiffen up from being hunched over the table.

The papers were taken and the Vicomte looked at what she had done, “remarkable,” he said, “you have, in little over three hours, taken a sloop from barely able to carry cargo to something that out probably outrun a pirate ship.”

Lydia had not realised that he was even there. “What I find most remarkable is how long you maintained the fiction that you were just a simple beta girl.” He had a smile like an axe blow and it made Lydia feel very small, even as he praised her.

“All those people scrabbling around, pulling apart countries looking for the mysterious Jeremiah Cole and here I have her in my house entirely by mistake, I wonder what I could do to make you solve the problem that both countries are fighting for, and tell me about the Semiramis.”

“It’s the name of my cat," Lydia said, affecting the wide eyed naif persona hat she used to maintain the fiction that she was exactly what people expected her to be. “One of papa’s customer’s gave her to me when I was small, I wanted her to know that she was a queen for far and distant Persia so I called her Semiramis, but she’s not a good cat, she’s fat and lazy and smells kinda bad and she likes to drink people's tea when she thinks you’re not looking.”

The vicomte reached out and grabbed her wrist, twisting it in his grasp so that she cried out, “I am not some simple English man, swayed by an omega’s pretty eyes and curls, lie to me again and I shall cut your hair off at the scalp, tell me will your whoremonger of a lord want you when I put out your eyes.”

Lydia dropped the impression of the naif, “if you put out my eyes how am I supposed to fix your ships? You want me to fix an impossible ship?" she laughed, “then maybe you don't want to break my wrist?”

“I had wondered," The vicomte smirked, “what it was Peter Hale found so appealing about you, now it is clear, now explain to me why the ship is impossible, and how we can make it more so, your father was unclear when he was my guest, so correct his mistake.”


	27. Chapter 27

Lydia was awoken by a hand clamping down over her mouth, without opening her eyes she bit down on the intruding body part. “Sweet Christ, Lydia," Peter whispered, “we're here to rescue you, not to lose a finger.”

“I’m being held hostage," she hissed back as he helped her out of the bed, holding out pants and jacket that were slung over the chair so she could quickly dress, “pardon me for thinking your intentions were not honorable, sir.”

In the dark she could see him smirk, “every time, dearest, I think I have reached the very apogee of affection that I have for you, you prove me a liar,” he bobbed his head forward and kissed her, “now quickly, “I have horses waiting at the tree line, I wanted to have you out of the manor before the raid, I don't want you in the middle of it.”

“I am not so squeamish that," a large boom shook the house.

“Shit," Peter interrupted flicking out his pocket watch, “it took longer than I intended to find you. I had hoped to miss the fireworks, I hope you don’t mind,” he swung open the casement glass and with one hand on the mantle swung his legs through, “come on, love,” he held out his hand to her.

She looked around the room, searching for the small dog which had been her constant companion in the time she had spent here, she patted her thigh so the dog roused itself from the nest she had made herself on the bed, clearly undisturbed by Peter’s ingress, and picked her up, handing her to Peter. “This is Nineveh," she told him matter of factly, “she was Argent's dog, now she’s mine.”

With no alternative Peter took the dog and let her down at his feet, before helping Lydia out of the window, his hands on her waist as he helped her to the ground. She had expected his hands to linger but they did not. She was surprised at how she wanted them to.

He sloughed off his great coat, wrapping it around her shoulders, and kissed her forehead. “Tell me that you are well,” he said, “I have been going out of my mind with worry about what might have been done to you.”

“I was taken from a shopping trip with my sister and a guard," she snapped as she led him a quick pace over the grassy lawn at the back of the manor, the moon was almost completely obscured by clouds but there was a frosty lightness in the air that gave what little moonlight there was a brilliant gleam so the sky looked like satin, “an alpha who seems to glory in violence held me at knifepoint until I drank some potion almost out of some tawdry stage play, then I was taken here, and I must admit I do not even know where here specifically is except somewhere in France and some holding relating to Vicomte Argent, and then I was forced to do chores.” She conveniently overlooked the fact that she had volunteered to do those chores because she had nothing else to do. “Then I had to spend my evening at supper with him, and you ask me if I am well? I am," there was a beat whilst she chose the word, “pissed.”

She was not one for profanity so the word shocked him, and rather than be offended or reacting as she expected him to, he wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her, almost bending her double with the force of it, with his hand running up the back of his great coat as he did so, pushing his thigh between hers, and the small spit dog was jumping at them, determined to be part of whatever it was that they were doing.

“My lord,” Theo hissed from the trees, “save it for the boat,”

“it’s a ship,” Lydia corrected from where she had pressed herself against Peter’s chest, “a boat can be carried aboard a ship, you better not be trying to take me back to England in a rowboat.”

“I like her,” a new man said from the shadows, he was tall and broad and tended to curl in on himself in a way that made him seem more intimidating, and his teeth seemed very sharp. “She’s more like you than her sister,”

Walking into the treeline there were a few horses tethered there, enough for the four of them, as another explosion rocked the manor behind them, and more men moved out of the treeline. “Wait,” the new man, the one that Lydia did not recognise said, “They might still have the plans.”

“Plans?” Lydia asked.

“The schematics,” the man explained, “for the ship, the Semiramis," he mispronounced it Semi-ram-iss.

“That ship is impossible,” Lydia said, “why won't anyone listen when they’re told it’s impossible,” she allowed Peter to help her onto the horse which nickered at what sounded like gunfire behind her, “we can talk about this on the ship,” she added, “I do not know what is going on back there but surely the further from it we are the safer we will be,”

“it will be for nothing if the plans go up with the manor," the man repeated, “the king’s navy has a vested interest in that ship. If we cannot find Jeremiah Cole then the plans Argent has might be our only hope," he looked ready to sprint across the grass and into the house despite whatever was happening in the manor which involved armed men.

“Jesus wept," Lydia snapped, “I am Jeremiah Cole, I thought you knew, can we go now.” Another loud crack split the quiet and the trees seemed to close in about them, “the plans are sabotaged,” she added, “the engine doesn't work, it explodes, we're fine to leave them with the plans, really, can we go? I would like to get back before Christmas, my mother and sister must be worried sick, and," she looked back, “I have been held hostage in that house for I do not know how long and I wish to leave, i am sure that the navy can manage, the plans do not work,” she was almost frantic, she felt grimy, and needed to leave, she needed to be away from here. Her sister and mother must be frantic, even the Duchenne must be frantic, she did not know how long that she had been gone. She wanted gone, because the Vicomte scared her and although she knew she had done everything she could to stymie the creation of the boat he so desperately wanted he was just there and she wanted gone.

“I must admit,” the new man said, “I do like her much more than her sister, she understands the urgency of these things.” He made no move to introduce himself and so Lydia did not need him to introduce himself, he was taking her home, that’s the only reason she needed him, introductions were irrelevant. “We have to leave, Lieutenant Parrish is buying us time to get to the boat, Argent will have men here, and we are technically invading a country that we are at war with. I would rather not push what luck that we have had because no one understands that we need to leave.”

Making sure that her new spitdog was in the post bag hung from Theo’s saddle Lydia pushed her horse into a canter into the trees, as Theo muttered but unwanted passengers and surely they could just get Lydia an English dog once they were back in Portsmouth, and maybe the dog was in fact a French spy. It was clear that he was grousing for the sake of grousing to remind them that he was there, and he was important and that if he was grousing about the dogs then he was not telling them to be quiet for fear of French soldiers, and if they were in the trees Theo would know about it.

—-

There was a small inlet, a hidden cove and a small rowboat there, certainly not big enough to carry the horses, “go on ahead,” the new man said, taking them by the reins, “there’s a fisherman nearby who owes me a favour, I’ll catch up.”

Theo swung down from his horse last, wrestling a licking, wriggling small dog from the saddlebag, but made no attempt to put her down, just transferring her from his own arms into Peter’s, who was given what appeared to be a tongue bath from the excited dog, doing his best not to drop her, as Theo made a comment about all the ladies loving his lord.

Lydia just climbed into the boat as if she was an empress on a pleasure jaunt, sat down and held her arms out for the dog, who was happy to sit at her feet, well behaved and not overly affectionate, as the three men pushed the boat into the water.

When they reached the ship, Lydia could not quite tell what kind it was in the night, and Theo picked up the saddlebag, “okay, little French spy,” he said picking up the dog and putting him back into the leather bag, “this is not fun for either you or I, Miss Martin, you should go first,” there was a rope ladder along the side of the boat, “they’ve gone to a lot of bother to rescue you, you should be the first on the ladder,” Peter looked like he might want to smack Theo around the back of the head but he was presented by Theo hanging the saddle bag over his head, complete with dog.

When Lydia had climbed up the side of the ship she stepped unto the deck like she was a queen, “I say," she said calling over one of the sailors who were waiting to escort her, “is there a captain present?”

The sailor ducked his head and went to fetch him, for it was clear the man was looking to make sure that there were no French ships in the area, for they were running with almost no lights so that they would not be seen.

Lydia Martin in a temper was a sight to behold, like a natural disaster, ideally viewed from a distance.

By the time the captain felt safe abandoning his post to attend to her Theo had climbed the ladder, after Peter, with the instruction that Halwyn, for that was the other man's name, was to follow with a local, and although Theo said fisherman Lydia was certain she heard smuggler, when he had the opportunity after dealing with the horses and making sure that they were not followed. He placed Nineveh on the deck and glared at her before she moved over to sit at Lydia's feet and let her tongue hang out with no care whatsoever that she had been stolen from what might have been the only home she had ever known, only that people were paying attention to her and picking her up.

The captain was a gentleman of about the same age as Peter, although Lydia had never really been certain of that and considered herself too polite to ask, “You are the captain, yes?” she asked him as he looked a girl who might have reached his shoulders and stroked his moustachios with forefinger and thumb wondering why this tiny creature was addressing him like a minion and not the captain of his own vessel. “You can perform marriages, yes?” she continued, “for I was taken as I planned my nuptials and now although the Vicomte was careful of my reputation my future husband has not given me the same grace,” she flicked an annoyed glance at Peter who gave a look of such adoration that Theo rolled his eyes, as if saying, isn't she magnificent. “If I am returned to London now, in this state, I shall be ruined and my sister’s reputation ruined with mine, this is unacceptable, so you will marry us.”

"I am sure that there was a question in there somewhere,” the captain said.

“There might have been," Lydia said, “I do not care, work out the details with Peter, I haven't even had chance to run a comb through my hair, I look like I was snatched through a hedgerow, and I know that you shall not move far waiting as you are for the men you used to sack the manor, I don’t think the local smugglers will be so keen to ferry your men.”

The captain looked at Peter as if to tell him to deal with her, to try and force some sort of obedience from her, but Peter looked utterly smitten. “You better do as she says,” Theo said, scratching at his head, “she’s insufferable when she doesnt’ get her way.”

And that was how Lydia was married, having strongarmed the captain of a naval vessel in enemy waters in wartime, with Theo Raeken serving as her bride’s maid and Peter Hale grinning like a loon as the captain performed the ceremony reading from a book of regulations with the look of a man who had never been called on to do this before, and when he asked for a ring, there had been a mild panic before one of the petty officers had found something that was a tiny chip of diamond set in silver for which Peter paid nearly two guineas for, because the sailor had the monopoly and Peter did not want to not give Lydia a ring in case it invalidated the marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i admit that i am rushing these last chapters to get them out before november 1st  
> do not be surprised if you return to find these last chapters have grown greatly after november is over
> 
> I am doing nano, I am doing it under the other pseud most likely and it will be dark  
> it is pydia  
> i am unsure as of right now if it's going to be posted in increments or when it's finished through december  
> i'll make my mind up as and when - i'm good like that
> 
> but yes, dear reader, she married him, if she had to drag him to the altar by the ear  
> who wants a porny epilogue


	28. Chapter 28

Theo was sat playing cards below decks when his Lord and employer appeared holding a small wriggling dog, which he then dumped in Theo’s lap, “take care of this," he said, he was wearing just his shirt and pants, his feet were bare and as he was on his wedding night with a woman who had ridden him completely witless to the point that he was the cliched knot head that one saw in pamphlets about the dangers of alphas managing government. 

“Are you asking me to drop her overboard?” Theo asked, wrapping his arms around the dog, she was eager and a little stupid but he wasn't going to put her in a sack and drop her overboard, there would certainly be a sailor that would take her, if she was a good ratter the ship itself might keep it.

“No,” Peter said horrified that Theo might even ask that of her - Theo had long since learned that Peter asked very strange things from him many of which were not moral, and some of which were dubiously legal, some were just illegal - “she keeps trying to get in bed with Lydia and snarling at me if I get near, this is my wedding night, I am not spending it with a dog snapping at me, her teeth might be small but they are sharp.”

“My Lord,” Theo said, with a look of mock seriousness, “are you trying to tell me that this adorable little dog is trying to play ball?” the sailors around the table tried to hide their laughter, Theo had moved her so his arm was underneath her to show off her pretty face. Nineveh was not a pretty dog, she had been a small wire haired working dog, and she had been worked hard, so her ears were notched and she was missing several teeth. She had plenty of personality in her face, and she was very affectionate, but she was not a show dog, she was brown and black and stroking her was not entirely unlike stroking a floor brush. As Lydia also had a fat smelly and very hairy cat it was likely she just had no taste. She had also strong-armed the infamous Lord Peter Hale into marriage. She probably just had no taste.

“Your wit is unappreciated, keep her busy until morning, you have had more odious women in your bed, after all, Theo.” The sailors laughed at Theo this time but Peter did not notice them, he enjoyed being witty for the sake of being witty, he did not need others to laugh for him.

With that Peter left, taking one of the lanterns with him. “Are all men so pissy on their wedding night?” one of the sailors asked as he reached over to scratch at the dog’s ear.

“Not every bride is as fair as our little princess," Theo said looking down at the dog on his knee, “he could not pause in his devotions to her to do his husbandly duty, and alphas when they can't empty their knots are rendered as dumb as the beasts of the field, and there are some really stupid sheep.”

Peter did not pay any attention to their laughter, even if he heard it, because he certainly did not turn back, even when the sailors nervously looked for him to.

—-

When Peter returned to the captain's cabin, given over to Lydia, possibly out of fear that she might otherwise demand it, Lydia was sat at the desk drawing something by lamplight, she wore only the shirt she had escaped Argent in, and her hair was loosely caught in a braid with a piece of black ribbon that fell over her shoulder. It was a facsimile, although she could not have known of it, of the first time that he had seen her.

“I fear you still do not believe that I am Mister Cole,” she said barely looking up from the chair, he could see the flash of her bare thigh from under the desk, “but other than laying out the complete design of a ship I do not see how I might convince you, I thought you knew, my love," she said, “you said you knew my secret.”

"I did,” Peter agreed, pulling his shirt over his head as he watched her, and then unbuttoning the fall of his pants, he had long since kicked off his stockings so that his feet were bare against the boards of the boat like he was one of the lowest sailors, and as such his feet felt like blocks of ice. There were blankets rucked up on the pallet bed that the captain called his own, where Lydia had been with her small obnoxious dog. 

The dog had been perfectly affectionate at first, and then when Peter had wrapped his arms around Lydia to kiss her, and he wished to do nothing more, then the accursed animal tried to wriggle up through the space between them, so he had picked her up and put her on the floor whilst Lydia laughed, and Peter had never heard so glorious a sound, she had immediately jumped back up and jumped over him, her claws scrabbling at his side, put herself between the two and started snapping at him clearly mistaking Peter’s amorous intentions for violence, which made him wonder just how Argent had treated her that the dog reacted so viscerally, but the more she did it the more Lydia laughed.

Eventually there had been nothing for it but removing the dog and then Lydia had been worried for the creature, as if she had not escaped from Hell to torture Peter, and he had promised not to leash her and make her unhappy, that he would leave her in Theo's questionable care, which meant she would be full of ship’s pork and rum and sleep with him in a hammock, if Theo chose to sleep at all when there was a whole shift of sailors at leisure to fleece.

And now she sat at the captain's desk making quick lines with her pen nib. “I knew you were an omega," Peter said, “I considered that secret enough to ruin you and your sister.”

“What were the odds that I married a man who would recognise that I might be unless I popped out a child with ears as pointed as those seen on pamphlets, the ones who look like a goblin,” he knew the ones, “no one would care, and they could not prove that I was hiding it with my own ears so barely pointed.”

“There are other ways to tell," he said, because he knew that there was.

“A clever beta can remove her body hair in such a way that unless you approach her with a loupe to check for follicles you will never know,” Lydia said, “especially as male betas do not think to check, and alphas care even less as they want to put their knot anywhere that it will fit.” He conceded that point, “unless I was presenting as a male omega with a scar with my testes would be I don't think anyone would truly care, and with my mother no one would question that I simply did not know even if I did produce a goblin baby. I could only be ruined if I stepped above my place, and they considered that I did, an omega or female beta writing a novel is a silly thing, and not something that would be considered tawdry, a strange amusement showing that I had enough education, but to design ships, I would be lucky if I were not burned as a witch.”

“I burn for you," Peter said.

Lydia groaned, “Stiles would be embarrassed to say that,” she said, “if you wish to tumble me, then you can simply say so," she raised a perfect eyebrow at him, even in the poor light she looked like a goddess. 

Peter hung the lantern from it's ceiling hook, almost fumbling it as he did so. “I really wish to tumble you,” he said.

“Oh good," she said, pushing back the chair she sat on to stand up, “because I was hoping you’d say that.”

Peter rushed forward and lifted her, throwing her unto the pallet with a laugh as her shirt rode up to reveal her stomach, soft and pillowy and Peter simply had to kiss it. The pallet was small, the blankets in the way, and Lydia’s bare legs were hanging over the edge, framing Peter’s own bare thighs, for he had lost his pants somewhere in the moving, and her heels which did not feel nowhere near as cold as his own did, batting against his calves.

He could see her stomach moving as she laughed with him, and her hair was like a thick rope coiling behind her, shining in the moonlight from the window behind her. He could see the goosepimples forming on her skin, for whoever had designed and built this ship had put the captain’s bed underneath the wide window where it was open to every draft coming off the late December sea. “You are beautiful,” he told her, “and one day soon I shall worship you like the goddess you are, taking my time to explore and chart every precious inch, but," he said.

“you’re pulling the blankets up and we’re going to fumble around under them because its’ freezing?” she finished his sentence.

“Oh god, yes.” He said and tugged the blankets up over their heads.

—-

Once they had been sighted coming into Portsmouth harbour, accompanied by two other ships, “a fine Christmas morning, my lady," the captain said and Lydia had to fight back a giggle.

“What?” Peter said, unsure why of all things the knowledge that she had been liberated and married on Christmas eve had caused her to laugh like that.

“I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day. I saw three ships come sailing in on Christmas Day in the morning” she sang a little off key, but generally happy, holding on to Peter’s arm, she was still in pants and shirt, but was wearing the cabin boy’s clothes as they were all that was on board ship to fit her. “And now I am utterly vexed because I spent hours with Stiles trying to work out what we would have for our Christmas feast and I adore stuffed goose, and it is in London and we are in Portsmouth.”

“Both the Duchenne and your sister are in Portsmouth," Theo said, “when you were taken they came to Portsmouth to make sure that we knew, it was lucky in many ways for I did not want to be the one to tell him.” Theo certainnly had his priorities clear, and avoiding vexing Peter with things he could do nothing about was prime, “I am certain that the Duchenne will have arranged for a Christmas feast, and he might have sent for your mother, although when we left she had locked herself in her room with a megrim and was hoping that more people would fuss over her.”

“There might have been histrionics over Felicity going to Portsmouth as well,” Lydia admitted, “she does like to make a scene. I love her dearly, but she can be exhausting.”

“The Duchenne had offered to make one of the country houses, one of the smaller ones, available for her, he suggested that she might not be as happy in London as she had thought that she might be, and perhaps Cheshire or Derbyshire would be more suited to her, she might even find herself another husband there,” Theo continued, “but she is welcome to remain in London for as long as she likes.”

“Of course,” Lydia agreed.

“Of course,” Theo continued, “it is possible that in our absence that your mother and the Duke himself have come to Portsmouth to await you, for there was no question that you would be returned.”

“Certainly not,” Peter, who had been in conversation with the captain, said rather tersely. “Even if I had not intended to make you my Lady then the idea of leaving an English maiden in the hands of the French, why it is the subject of a salacious novel.”

“I hope you were not disappointed by such novels,” Lydia purred, “for I find them bland, I much prefer the pamphlets that ladies should not be reading.”

Theo not wanting to be caught in their flirting left, quickly.

—-

When Lydia arrived in the Martin home she was met at the door by her sister, who threw herself into her embrace talking about how she had missed her and been so worried, and then she stood back to appraise her. “You are dressed like a cabin boy, Mama would have a conniption if she were here, you are blessed indeed she decided that she would go to church this morning, or she would be out wailing in the streets that you are ruined,” she paused, “you are not ruined are you, because I will have to take to my bed with a megrim if she learns that you are.”

“I am married,” Lydia managed to get out as the servants moved around behind her, one of them running upstairs with a large kettle in her arms so she was clearly preparing a bath, in entering first Peter had made arrangements in the moments it had taken Felicity to accost her. “Look,” she showed her sister her hand with it’s tiny ring, wrapped at the back with a leather thong so it did not slip from her finger.

“It’s rather,” Felicity said.

“One can not necessarily find a jewellers on board a naval vessel, Flick, I was lucky that it was not an eye patch or the mount on a wooden leg," she said, “it might seem rather rude of me, but I am dying for a bath, I have not had the pleasure since I was taken, and if Mama is at church I would like to be dressed more appropriately before she returns, I am told that the Duchenne is present as well," Felicity indicated that he was, “so we shall catch up soon, a breakfast perhaps, for I feel more grimy than hungry, but I am sure I could eat a whole ham, and sister,” she said, “I have acquired a dog.”

“A dog?" Felicity asked, “I do not believe that is the usual souvenir for such a travail.”

“The man who held me considered himself a gourmand, he loved food and especially the making and preparing of food, so I might have taken his spit dog," Felicity laughed, “she can live out her dotage in comfort and luxury, safe in the knowledge that it will frustrate him even more than being unable to make the ship that all of this nonsense was for.”

“It is very petty, sister," Felicity said.

“I know." Lydia grinned, “now I am sure someone has drawn me a bath, I could certainly ask my husband to join me, if you would rather not fill me in on what I have missed, why he is quite rapacious.”

“Lydia," Peter chided with a smile, “it is not that it is not true, but Felicity is young yet, she does not need to know this.” 

“She might not need to," Stiles said with a smirk from the door, “but she wants to, no?” He was wearing a red velvet coat which suited his complexion finely and his hair was curling around his ears, the Duke, himself wearing a black superfine, was one step behind him with his arm curled around his spouse’ waist. They looked the very image of connubial bliss, happily married and very much in love with each other. The duke had his shoulder resting on Stiles’ shoulder and was basically amused.

“She does," Felicity agreed, “for there are things a mother cannot discuss, come, sister, I shall help you in your bath, and you can tell me everything.”

“I shall not tell you everything," Lydia enunciated the word, “I should let my lord retain a few secrets.”

“A few," Felicity said, “for there are things I do not need to know,”

“Husband," Stiles said turning his head to nuzzle his nose against the duke's cheek, “Peter has not had wedding breakfast, we must,” he murmured something in his own language, “Christmas feast must suffice, but tea, we can have them make tea, and we can," he paused, “bread that is cooked at fire, we can make them that, and we shall feast and rejoice, and,” he frowned, “the word it is gone, we shall have tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to finish this today, but i could not, there's clearly like two chapters left, including the explanation of how peter rescued her  
> ummm, it's a happy ending for now, but the explanations can wait a month  
> right  
> right  
> with the porny epilogue
> 
> the Nano is called The Wine Dark Sea  
> it's a Crow AU, so it's, if you know The Crow you can see where a lot of it is going  
> but it'll be worth it, honest  
> Peter as the Crow, a figure of revenge - well yum  
> but yeah, i'm not sure if i'm going to post it as it happens [like i did with white hart] or in one lump  
> i will take recommendations on that because I'm am so suggestible it's untrue, blame thisdiscontentedwinter for talking me into it - which she absolutely did
> 
> i will also at some point actually spellcheck these last few chapters, i just wanted them done so i can start when i wake up tomorrow - well once the coffee hits


End file.
